


World Without End, Amen

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Epic, Episode: s05e10 Abandon All Hope..., Gen, Jossed, M/M, Pre-Slash, Retcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-13
Updated: 2010-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:38:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean makes a discovery. Bobby has a plan to trap Death. Written and posted post 5x10, so everything after that is non-applicable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1  
**  
The photo crumbled into the fire. The smoke gave off the acrid stench of burning ink and charring paper, and the memories burned clear and bright even as their proof faded to ashes. Behind them, the TV buzzed harsh reminders of the wages of folly.

Dean slipped outside the minute he could. If Sam and Bobby heard him go, they showed no sign of it; they were too deep in mourning themselves, or they understood that his way of grieving was different. Either way, they allowed him to go, and Dean was grateful for that. He couldn't stand there and weep like the others. It wasn't his way.

Didn't stop the cold from biting him, or his hands from freezing up as he stomped across the land into a small grove of grizzled oaks that gathered like a huddle of old men against the back end of the property. It was a refuge, a quiet hiding spot where he could gnash his teeth and slam his fist against bitter bark without having to explain himself into maudlin melodrama. He wasn't that type. Bobby understood that, but Sam might not. No, Sam might have understood it as well. But in front of Sam, he might break down. And he didn't want to break down. He wanted to do something. He wanted action.

It was all wrong. The whole way they'd been going about this was all wrong. The two of them, trying to take on the greatest enemy the human race had ever had. As if that wasn't foolish enough, they'd pulled in people they knew weren't part of this, they'd taken chances with lives that weren't theirs and they'd squandered those lives. They never should have allowed Ellen and Jo in. They should have shut them out even if that meant taking off in the middle of the night. There should have been another way.

Behind him was the flicker of a flapping coat against the breeze, the crunch of leaves underfoot. Dean ignored it, continued to rage silently until his companion chose to speak. It was okay to be watched by Castiel. Castiel had always watched him. That truth had long since turned from worrisome to comforting.

"You did everything you could."

If the words weren't spoken in that dull, earnest monotone, Dean might have wheeled and roared. But Castiel didn't even pretend his words meant anything. He wasn't under any illusion he could offer Dean comfort. And that was the greatest comfort of all.

"I know," he muttered. "There was no other way out."

"It was the right thing to do."

"Was it?" He turned to face him; in the darkness the gaunt slant of Castiel's cheeks and the sunken dark knots of his eyes were even more macabre. "I don't know, Cas. I'm beginning to think there wasn't a right thing to do. I don't think we have any good choices anymore."

The grizzled chin lifted. "Perhaps not." Castiel turned back to gaze briefly at the house. Across the yard, lights in the window still burned orange and bright, like eyes on the horizon. From the chimney wafted the curling remains of a photograph of happier times.

His face turned back to Dean's, and in the bland expression Dean saw minute clues of Castiel's thoughts -- the slight furrow of a brow, the twitch and quirk of the side of his mouth. Finally, he spoke. "You were close to her."

"To both of them," Dean said, almost defensively. Then his expression softened. "I thought Jo was such a kid, you know? But she-- she really was something." He rubbed his hand along the back of his hair, feeling the grain ruffle against his fingertips. "I feel like, if we'd had time..." He shook his head.

"Time for what?" A squint and purse of lips meant Castiel genuinely didn't know.

"Jo and I. You know. We could have had something. And I don't mean something, like every other girl I pick up," he added hastily. "I mean something special. Something real." He gazed at Castiel, unsure how he'd react.

He didn't react, not much at all. Just nodded and didn't deny it. Castiel didn't get it, couldn't understand what it was to feel that way. And that made it easier. Everyone wanted to add their own experience to this one, singular pain he was feeling, even though nobody could possibly know just how deeply it ached. But Castiel didn't pretend to know. That was freeing. It meant Dean could just feel it.

Inside was warmth, was family and familiarity and comfort. But all Dean wanted was to be out here with someone who'd never understand. Absent understanding, there was only action left. And action is what he wanted.

"There has to be another way to do this," he said. "There has to be some way to resolve this that doesn't involve people dying, and Sam and I getting our asses ridden by angels, and the whole frigging world going insane before it's done. There has to be some secret weapon, some hidden reversal spell or something that can make all of this go away." His feet were starting to itch him, and he kicked them against the ground. "Cas, tell me there's something we haven't tried yet. Something we can do to stop this."

"I'm sorry, Dean." And for the first time, real emotion registered in Castiel's eyes. "I don't have any answers."

"No, there are answers. We just have to think harder." The wind was blowing right through his clothes now, it felt like-- his skin was prickling and his fingers were going numb. He paced. "We're trying to kill Lucifer, right? So Lucifer's an angel. We've seen angels killed before. You've killed angels, Cas. There has to be some way to trap him and kill him."

"He's very powerful," Castiel said. "More powerful than any other angel except for Michael. I couldn't get close to him unless he wanted me to--"

Castiel stopped.

"What?"

"He wanted me to," Castiel said. "He wanted me trapped, under his control, while he raised Death. That means I could have stopped him if I were free."

All of the frustration, the mourning and loneliness and bitterness that had pounded on Dean since this awful day began resolved and shaped itself into the force with which he moved forward to seize Castiel's shoulders. His eyes blazed. "How?"

Castiel shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I must know something. Something that could have stopped him. He wasn't afraid of you, he let you be there and witness it, but me he wanted out of the way. Why?"

"Cas." Dean's scowl was darker than the night that sealed them in. "You have to teach me everything you know."

"What?"

"All of your magic. Your spells, those sigils that keep angels out, everything you know about how angels work, how they can be killed. Teach it to me. That way, when Lucifer gets close, I'll be able to work your mojo on him. I can kill him."

"That's--" The word on his lips was probably _impossible_, but Castiel didn't say it. Instead, he stopped, frowned, looked up at Dean and over his shoulder. "That would take months."

"But you can do it." Dean stepped forward. "You can teach me."

Eyes flickered with a bit of hope. "I suppose if we had the time, I could sit you and Sam down and teach you some basics--"

"Not Sam." Dean's voice was hard. "Not Sam. Just me." He coughed. Bitter, cold air scraped his fist. "Sam can't know about this."

"Why not?"

"Do I have to list all the reasons?" His tone was exasperated, but Dean bore the beginnings of a smile. This would be a satisfying litany of justifications. "Sam's Lucifer's vessel. If Lucifer finds out whatever it is you know that he's scared of, he'll figure out a way to beat it. And Sam is still power-hungry. He talks about it all the time. This could be a gateway drug for him. We don't want him drinking angel blood now."

Castiel visibly shivered. "No, we don't."

"Plus." A flash of satisfaction in Dean's eyes. "Sam's not the only one who can take off and train in secret. It's my goddamn turn."

For a moment, Castiel regarded him, unblinking, his mouth pressed together. Dean met his gaze, and something in it frightened him. He stepped closer again. "Please, Cas," he said, and his plea hovered in the scant space between their profiles.

"Very well." The softness in Castiel's voice betrayed tenderness, or fear -- or a mixture of both. "I'll be in touch."

"We can start now--" But then Castiel was gone, and an instant later Dean saw why. Sam was crossing the yard in long strides. Dean shouldered the burden of his new secret and walked up to meet him halfway.

**

"Bobby says he wants to plan strategy," Sam said as they reached the porch steps. "He says he's done simpering and mourning and it's time for action."

Dean half-laughed. Good old Bobby. He understood. "What kind of strategy is he thinking?"

"He says he wants to find Death."

"We can't stop Death."

I know, but War had a ring, right? Something that was the focus of his powers. If Death has something similar, we can neuter him. Prevent him from spreading any further than Missouri. Or what's left of it."

"You two yahoos want to come in here or are you too busy necking on the porch after your first date?" Bobby hollered from inside.

Sam and Dean looked at each other. They were, indeed, face to face, shadowed at the top of the porch stairs just outside the doorway. Another beat and they burst into stupid laughter. It was the first time the tension had broken all day, and it felt damned good.

**

"What is your plan, then?" Dean said, walking across the slats of the floor with measured steps. "How are we going to find Death?"

"We're not," Bobby said. He was in the kitchen, nursing a mug of soup. It was just the microwave for him since the stove became too high to reach. He grumbled about modern appliances all the time, said it didn't taste the same as when you were standing at the stove feeling the steam come up and stirring the broth with a wooden spoon. Dean, who'd lived all his life out of convenience store food, didn't have a clue what he was talking about.

"Death shows up where there's great carnage," Bobby went on. "So that's what we give him, a chance for a hell of a body count. We wait for him to come to us. And we trap him."

"What are you saying?" Dean said. "That we go out and kill a bunch of people?"

"Of course not, dumbass. I said a _chance_ for a body count. We're going to make him an offer he can't refuse."

"I'm not following."

Bobby set down his mug with a great clatter. "Boys," he said, "we need to build an army."

"What?" Sam choked on his own breath.

Rage and disbelief coiled inside Dean, churning hard against his ribs. He slammed his fist on the wall. "I am not," he said, "_not_ letting one more person die because we thought we could protect them."

"Think about it, Dean," Bobby said, meeting his gaze without a shred of fear. "We've had to get hunters together before. To fight demon infestations, swarms, but that was nothing compared to this. This is the end of the freaking world. Lucifer's going to pull out all the stops, and we need to do the same if we want any chance of stopping him. I'm going to call every hunter from here to the left and right coasts, and tell them to call every hunter they know. We're going to take the fight to them."

"You're going to use them as _bait_."

"Well, it's not as if I'm happy about it." Bobby wheeled around to look up at him. "But, yeah, you're right. We give Death an engraved invitation and take him down, and how many more lives will we have saved? At least hunters know what they're up against."

"Even if we do," Sam said from his perch against the bookcase on the other side of the room, "it's not like neutering War stopped the apocalypse. Lucifer hasn't stopped."

"Sam's right. That son of a bitch has kept on keepin' on," Dean agreed. "If anything, I'd say we encouraged him."

"Well I'm sorry, boys," Bobby said, tilting his head at them. The venom in his tone was undisguised. "I didn't realize you'd rather Missouri become a disaster zone then see a few of your friends kick the bucket to stop the damn _apocalypse_."

"There just has to be a better way," Dean said.

"If you've got an idea, I'm all ears, genius."

"As a matter of fact--" The words dried up. He didn't know enough yet, didn't have a clue what Castiel was going to teach him. And Sam was right there. Dean had to be careful. he had to bide his time until he knew. Until he had his weapons assembled. He hung his head. "No. No, never mind. I don't know. Maybe you're right. Maybe this is all we can do. But we have to take our time. Get everyone assembled, train them. Make sure they're ready before we move." And buy enough time for Dean to learn whatever lessons he needed in order to nip this whole thing in the bud.

Bobby watched him for a moment. Finally, seeming satisfied, he turned away. "I'll get on the horn first thing tomorrow," he said. "You boys get some sleep."

**

Death was, quite literally, having a field day.

This was the fifth field he'd torn up. Fields were more than lives; they were livelihoods. They were money in the bank for poor mortal saps who poured blood, sweat and tears into them every day in the hope that someday the world would come around and give them their just deserts-- the twilight of their years, in peace and serenity, surrounded by family, well rewarded for work painstakingly done.

With one tornado, Death laid all that to waste. And were there any humans left alive to hear his triumphant cackle, it would sound like an angry world rising up in a vengeful declaration: _You will never be done. You will never have peace._

He didn't observe the careful borders that humans drew across their lands, so the sign that read _Welcome to Kansas_ went flying along with everything else, landing in a heap atop one of the overturned cars along the roadway. Death only knew he was heading southwest, toward the place where his master had holed up. A farmhouse where, Lucifer said, everything had begun.

**to be continued**


	2. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby's a hell of a general. Dean starts his lessons.

It was beginning to look like Woodstock on Bobby's front lawn.

They'd come in trailers, they'd come in campers, they'd come bearing pup tents like this was a Boy Scout campfire. Some had hitchhiked. Some had taken three-hundred-dollar taxi rides. Nearly a hundred had gathered by a half a week into things, and there were more coming every day.

Bobby, it seemed, knew more people than Dean and Sam had ever expected him to know. He came harrumphing down the ramp the two of them had fitted for him when he first got home from the hospital and wheeled around the yard, throwing curmudgeonly greetings here and there. Everyone seemed pleased to see him, and everyone had a story about the good old days, when Bobby had saved someone's life or introduced someone to her future husband or helped someone get through that time a demon had possessed their father. It was almost surreal to hear every day a new tale of his best days, people looking down at that wheelchair with nothing but pride and respect in their eyes. And it made Bobby perk up, too, sit up a little straighter and start to hold himself the way he used to. Old Ironsides, marching proudly among his troops, a wounded veteran and proud to be one.

"He's like Lieutenant Dan," Sam said once with a smirk.

"Who?"

"Didn't you ever see Forrest Gump?" And then another stifled snicker-- "You know, Tom Hanks as the dumb guy who accomplishes so much?"

"Sounds like one of those heartwarming goody-two-shoes flicks," Dean grumbled.

"I would have thought you'd identify with it," Sam said, and it took Dean a moment to realize that was his cue to put down the gun he was polishing and pound Sam like he deserved for being such a wise-ass.

Guns, speaking of which, were a problem. Bobby had a hell of an arsenal, as did a lot of the hunters who had come. But there were economies of scale to consider, not to mention ammunition, and eventually Bobby tasked Sam and Dean with driving out to the neighboring states to grab what they could. A different state, a different city each day, even driving one of Bobby's old junk heaps or another instead of taking the Impala every time. They had to be invisible, forgettable, or there'd be alerts that someone in the area was collecting an arsenal.

Even with their best efforts, though, local police had taken notice of the impromptu gathering. Bobby swore at them, called them every name in the book, swore that if they were going to stand there and laugh at his family reunion then he'd happily go downtown and insult their mother some more. And yet somehow -- and maybe it was Bobby's natural charm, or maybe it was the psychics working double-time to confuse the hell out of the poor cops -- they managed to stay clean.

"Bobby's trying to give me a coronary," Dean said, walking through the house to get a beer from the fridge. "I don't know how he manages to cut it this close all the time, but I've got to hand it to him, guy knows how to handle himself."

"He managed for a good long while before we were ever born." Sam was looking out the window. "And it looks like ours aren't the only lives he's touched. By a long shot."

"Heh." Dean took a swig of the beer, then spat. "Blech. Foul." When Sam laughed, he shot him a nasty look.

"It's funny," Sam said quietly, "but when I look out at all of that, I actually think we might stand a chance."

Dean didn't feel that way. He looked out at the trailers and trucks and tents and saw nothing but carnage waiting to happen. All these people, all these good hunters and good folks that Bobby counted as friends, and they were all going to be offered up as a sacrifice. Bobby had talked up the chance that they wouldn't, but Dean knew better than to believe for a minute they'd come out alive. He rubbed his eyes and forced another swallow of beer down, but when he looked out the window, all he saw were corpses that hadn't fallen yet.

**

One of the hidden blessings of this time of readying was the simplicity of getting away. Dean didn't much like lying low, but he had to admit that it was nice to be able to jump in the car and head out when he started to itch. He took the state highway down to the next town over and drank a beer, or had a burger, or-- best of all-- met with Castiel, who was beginning to teach him an ancient language of signs and symbols that could be leveraged to trap or confuse an angel.

"This sort of thing's usually Sammy's territory," Dean said one night when the loops and arrows began to all blur together. "I'm not so good with spells and magic and crap. I'm much more of the beat-em-up type."

"You underestimate your own intelligence," Castiel said lightly, drawing the next set of signs in liquid light on the tabletop. "You're catching on quickly."

"Out of necessity." Dean traced them on his own page. "Trust me, the minute this is all over, I'm forgetting everything you ever taught me." He grinned at Castiel, who, to his great surprise, looked sort of sad.

"Not everything, I hope," the angel said quietly.

Dean peered at him. "Well, no, not everything," he said, wondering what he was doing reassuring someone who didn't seem to have many emotions at all. He set down his pen and leaned over the table. "Why? What are you thinking about, Cas?"

"Nothing." His eyes slid sideways, dark as beads of oil. "I just find myself hoping... that you won't forget about me when all this is over."

"Why would I?" Dean frowned.

"Because I would," said Castiel quietly.

That hurt, more than Dean expected. The words felt like a pincer taken to his gut, his muscles folding in on itself. "Am I that forgettable?" he said, shrugging, trying to look cavalier and casual. "Way to make a guy feel good about himself, Cas."

"I'm immortal," Castiel said. "If I am not killed, I will live forever. Millions upon millions of years, Dean. I can't even count the number of people I must have forgotten about by now. It used to be that we walked the earth more frequently. In times of miracles. But I can't remember it. I can't remember it at all. So I think that most likely, it's only a matter of time before I forget about you, too."

Dean was struggling with what to say when he saw what looked suspiciously like tears in Castiel's eyes. The sight took the breath away from him, and spontaneously, he covered Castiel's hand with his own. "Look," he said, "what matters is that you're here now, right? So I'll fade away after a couple thousand years. So what? Now is now, later is later."

He was going to leave it at that, but something itched at him, and he kept going. "And let me tell you, there's something nice about being mortal, too. I might not live that long, but I remember people I care about. And I care about you, Cas. So I'm not going to forget you."

The words and the hand beneath his were too much to take together. He pulled back and, embarrassed, picked up his pen to start tracing symbols again.

"Dean."

Castiel had spoken his name, but his gaze was on something faraway. "Do you think my Father has forgotten about me?"

It was a question Dean couldn't even begin to find an answer for. He started several times, taking a breath, sometimes letting a small sound escape his mouth. But what could he possibly say? He hadn't even really believed in God before Castiel. What did he know about such a being? Only that Castiel believed in him.

And Dean, who had always been a nonbeliever, believed in Castiel-- sometimes to his own chagrin-- with all his might. So if life was at all fair, Castiel's faith would be vindicated.

**

Life wasn't fair.

It was one of the supreme joys of Death's existence. He was certain as taxes, and took a piece out of you with almost as much diversity and imagination as a painter could take with the bristles of a brush and a blank canvas. He enjoyed the array of diseases, accidents, pestilences and violent encounters that he caused. The epic poetry of a man sacrificing his own life to save his brother-- beautiful. But there was also the absurdist fun of a man who let a raccoon maul him to death, or a wife taking little pieces out of her husband to dip in fondue. So much death. And so much foreplay, too-- even those things that led to death were fun in their own way. Sickness. Injury. Despair.

And Death was a people person, too. He came to everyone, sooner or later, introduced himself and said hello. Those few that he called members of his family were more privileged than most, though -- for when they asked him to visit there was surely a great feast to be had. And so he surveyed the spread being laid out in a nearby state, his mouth watering, eager to start.

Wait, Lucifer said. Wait. Everyone has his role to play. So yours shall be. Patience, my old friend, they will all need you sooner or later. For now, your brother is on his way.

It rankled him, but Death knew the words were true. He'd have his turn. So why not wait, why not allow the suffering to build up slowly before he sunk his teeth in? It would be his turn as surely as the sun would rise on this tawdry, filthy little planet tomorrow. So he sat back and reveled in the certainty of the sheer unfairness of it all.

Life was a bitch-- and then there was him.

**

The first person got sick the next day. It was a thirteen-year-old, daughter of a hunter who didn't have anywhere else to stash her kid, so she came along. So kids had lousy immune systems, and there was some talk that she'd had a sip of beer the night before which might have been more than a sip and she might have not had the stomach for it. Fine. So it wasn't really a big worry until someone else got ill, this time a forty-year-old veteran who'd survived in the jungle in South Asia back in the day, and he was all the way across the camp from the pre-teen but was having the same problems. Stomach cramps, vomiting, inability to keep anything down. Bobby sent the two of them to the hospital, but then the next day ten people in the camp were sick, and the following day it was twenty-five.

Hand sanitizer did nothing. Keeping inside your own tent did nothing. The minute someone seemed like they were getting better, they'd go right back into the thick of it the next day. Three days and a full third of the camp was subsisting on nothing but water. The fourth day, people started fainting from lack of nourishment.

"Food's poisoned," Dean declared. "Has to be. Something's been getting into our food supply."

"But everyone's getting their own supplies," Sam said. He, Dean, and Bobby were inexplicably fine; nothing they'd had seemed to go bad, with the possible exception of that old-as-the-hills beer Dean had sucked down at the beginning of the encampment. "And I was grocery shopping with that Ramona woman yesterday. We took apples from the same bin. How come hers made her sick and mine was fine?"

Dean, who had been biting into one of those apples, choked a little bit but forced it down.

"Doesn't feel natural," Bobby said. His voice was hoarse, thin, and he stopped to cough before going on. "Starting to wonder if someone in our camp's doing something to sabotage us. Trying to take our little army down before it gets on its feet."

"Demons?" Sam said.

Dean scoffed. "That's impossible. Everyone's checked at the gate. There's enough anti-possession mumbo-jumbo around this place to choke a hellhound."

"Then maybe it's not a demon," Bobby said, wheeling into the next room. "Maybe it's something else."

He took down an illuminated copy of the New Testament from a shelf. Weeks ago, the book had been covered in dust. Now it was brushed off almost every day. Bobby slid his fingers between the pages and flipped it open. His hand glided over an illustration of bodies heaped up, emaciated and white, as a figure in the background cast a skeletal hand over the pile of corpses.

"Famine," he said.

"The horseman?"

"He's trying to starve our asses," Bobby said. "There are some well folks out there that are refusing to eat now. Afraid they'll end up sick as their buddies."

"So how do we stop him?" Sam asked.

"We don't," Bobby said grimly. They both looked over at him.

"War got his bloodbath. Death got his disaster. If Famine wants a plague, then Famine's goddamn well going to get a plague," Bobby said dourly. "It's all we can do to wait it out and hope we can recover as many soldiers as we can."

"Bobby, that's insane," Dean said, snatching the book from his hand. "That's not the way we operate."

"If he doesn't succeed with us he'll do it somewhere else," Bobby snapped. "Someplace we can't reach in time. People are going to die no matter what we do."

Dean grabbed him by the shoulders. "Cut it out." He shook him, and Bobby's body yielded, strangely light between the clamping palms of his hands. Dean saw then that the circles under his eyes were deeper than they'd ever been, that his cheeks had sunken and his complexion had gone white.

And that's when Bobby wavered and fell limp in his arms.

A whirl of sounds and sensations -- Sam shouting, a few of their friends breaking through the front door, hands lifting Bobby's fame out of the chair and lying him down on the bed -- and the next clear thing Dean recalled was a woman looking up and saying, "He's dehydrated, malnourished. He hasn't eaten for five days, at least."

"But that-- that can't be--" Sam's voice. Breathless with disbelief. It all sounded like voices through glass to Dean. He was backing out of the bedroom, backing down the stairs. Sam was calling after him. Horror had sucked the meat out of his senses. He was blacking out, moving without thinking.

His hands clutched around the metal of his car keys and the bite of their jagged teeth snapped him back into reality. Turning, shutting out everything but the sudden purpose that had seized him, Dean ran for the car, jammed the keys in the ignition, and sped away.

**to be continued **


	3. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean takes a step he doesn't want to take. Lucifer reaches out and touches someone.

"He's not dying of starvation," Castiel said.

The car nearly veered off the road. Dean slammed his hands on the steering wheel. "Jesus!"

"Not quite."

"That's humor, Cas. I'm impressed." Dean switched off the car radio and looked in his rear view mirror. "Well, I was coming out to see you, but I guess I might as well just pull the hell over now."

"I didn't think you'd want to wait."

Dean took a breath. "No. No, I don't." The Impala squealed as it careened to the side of the road, finding steady purchase on the shoulder of the highway against a dry patch of grass. "You want to get in the front seat, at least?"

Castiel was already there. Dean jumped again.

"It's fear," Castiel said, not reacting to Dean's surprise but gazing at him levelly. "Behind each horseman is a destructive human emotion. War incited anger. Death brings despair. With Famine, it's fear. Bobby is afraid of dying, and so he's starved himself to keep from getting sick. He's killing himself with fear."

"So, what, because Sam and I aren't afraid, we're not getting sick?"

"No." Castiel frowned. "I suspect you're being kept well for a different purpose."

"Well, everybody knows why Sam's kept squeaky clean," Dean said, grimacing. "But there's no reason to protect me."

"Or," Castiel said, "you just aren't becoming afraid."

"That's bull," Dean said. "I'm scared to death of this thing. We could lose all these people for no reason other than they're afraid to eat."

"But you are not afraid for yourself."

That set Dean silent again. He shook his head and looked at his hands. How could he be afraid for himself? By all rights he should be dead already. Every day he was still here was a gift he didn't deserve. The least he could do was try his damnedest to save the world before it came to its senses and kicked him back to the pit again.

He became aware then that Castiel was looking at him funny. And by funny Dean meant really, really weirdly. Castiel's brow was furrowed and his lips were parted, but he wasn't speaking, just hovering there on the edge of speech. He looked... conflicted. Almost pained.

"Don't think such things about yourself," he finally said.

Dean grumbled. "Who told you to read my mind, anyway?"

"I'm sorry." Castiel turned his head away, and Dean could breathe again. What a weird look that had been.

"Anyway. The point is, we need to figure out how to stop it. There has to be a way, right?"

Castiel shifted in the seat. "There is a way," he said slowly. "I'm not sure you're going to like it, though."

**

Sam cornered him the minute he returned. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Dean slammed the car door. "Whoa. Sammy. What's up?"

"What's up? What's up is you take off with Bobby practically dying of starvation without a single word or a clue where you were going, you don't answer your phone, you leave me here alone..." Sam ran out of words and resorted to pacing the grass, running his fingers through his hair and snorting like a startled horse.

 "Sammy. Sammy, relax." Dean tried to grab him by the shoulder, but Sam whirled, knocking a "whoa" out of him.

"Don't tell me to relax!" Sam pointed up at the house. "You left me all alone to deal with this. That's not cool, Dean."

"All alone?" In a sweep of the hand Dean took in the throng of vehicles and tents. "You call this alone?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. You think I know any of these people, Dean? You think I can trust any of them? They can't trust us. We're going to lead them into a trap!"

"Shh." Dean looked around nervously. "You know that's not true. They know what we're facing. Let's go inside and talk about this, Sam. You're upset."

Sam's jaw twitched. "Yeah. Yeah, all right."

They walked into the house, and Dean thought he'd calmed Sam down until the bang of the screen door set him off again. He shivered all over-- again like a spooked horse, Dean thought with a bit of amusement-- and turned on Dean. "So where were you?"

"Nowhere. Clearing my head."

"You're lying."

"Sammy." A warning tone.

"Whatever. Where the hell's Cas?" The suddenness and the closeness of Sam's non sequiter to the mark were enough to make Dean shake. "We haven't seen him in days. You'd think he'd be raring to go on this. This whole Army of God thing."

Dean bit his lip. "Sammy, listen to me. This is important." He laid a hand on Sam's arm, guided him down to a chair in the living room and sank onto the couch next to him.  "The whole point of this is to make us scared. We get scared, we stop trusting each other. That's what they want."

"They. You mean Lucifer. You still think I'm just going to get pissed off and say yes to him."

"No. No, I mean both of us. Lucifer gets you, Michael gets me, it's the same thing. It's the end of the world either way. I'm in as much trouble as you are."

Sam flushed, let his head fall onto his palm. "Dean, what if we lose Bobby?"

"We're not going to lose him."

"How can you be so sure?"

Dean cursed himself for not having a better answer. "Because I have a plan, OK?"

Sam's face lit up. "You do? That's great. Tell me."

Yeah, it was a stupid answer all right. Dean had painted himself into a corner, and now he looked around desperately for a way to slip out of it. None presented itself. "I can't," he muttered.

"Why not?"

"I just can't. I need you to trust me on this." He grabbed Sam's hand. "Please, Sam. They want us to doubt each other. So we've got to believe in each other instead. Believe in me, trust me on this, it'll make us both stronger. It'll make it harder for them to tear us apart."

Sam blinked at him, and it felt for an instant like he was looking at a stranger. But he nodded.

**

It was just starting to get light out when Dean came out of the house. Under his arm he carried a burlap pouch, one of Bobby's old sacks from when he was on the road more often. There were circles under his eyes, but their gaze was sharp, and when he spoke his words cut through the morning air with their hoarse rasp. "All right, everybody. I need you to gather round."

Sam followed him at a distance. Upstairs, Bobby had risen and was watching through an open window. Slowly, haggard faces peeked out from car doors and tent flaps, and Dean waited patiently, occasionally repeating his call or waving people forward, until a good-sized crowd had gathered at the foot of the porch steps. Crows were cawing on the power lines along the highway. The morning was cool and blue, and even with the nip in the air there was a warmth, the possibility for hope lifting along with the red sun on the horizon.

"Good news today," Dean said. "You all know Bobby got sick last night, but he's going to be fine." A pleased murmur broke out in the crowd. "The better news is, you're all going to be fine."

He undid the drawstrings on the pouch. "Someone's been getting into our food, that much we know. We don't know who it is, we can't catch them. But we can protect ourselves." From the bag he drew a tangle of lanyards, shoestring rope with a circle in cardboard hanging from the center of each. On the cardboard, in indelible ink, was drawn an intricate symbol. "I want each of you to put one of these over the entrance to your trailers, your campers, wherever you keep your food supply."

Sam started. "Where did you--" Dean shot him a quick look, and he fell back.

"We all know about curses," Dean went on. "But there are two sides to everything. You can curse objects, but you can bless them, too. This sigil will protect you from the effects of the attack. But it's only as powerful as your belief in it," he added with a warning. "The minute you decide it's going to do nothing, that's exactly what it'll do.

"We're all good at believing in evil," he said. "Now's the time for us to try to believe in good for a change. It's a bigger challenge, but I'm asking you to give it a try. Just for a little while."

For a moment the camp was silent. Then murmurs of assent started to rise, and before long the throng pressed forward. Sam came to kneel next to Dean, helping him in passing the charms out to the crowd.

"I recognize those symbols," he said quietly. "You have been talking to Cas, haven't you, Dean?"

"Leave it, Sam."

"Don't get me wrong, I think it's great. It's brilliant," Sam said. "Why didn't you tell me? Did you think I'd disapprove?"

Dean kept his face carefully neutral. "It's not that."

"Well, I think it's great." Sam's smile was irrepressible. "And for what it's worth, Dean-- you've changed."

A squint. "How do you mean?"

Sam shrugged, took a moment to nod at a thankful fellow who was clutching the sigil close to his chest. "I mean, you were always a lone wolf, but just now, you acted like a leader. These people would follow you, Dean. Into battle or wherever. They believe in you."

Dean smiled. "As long as _you _believe in me, Sammy, that's all I need."

Sam beamed at him. At long last, everything felt right. But a minute later, the smile was gone from Dean's face and something else had taken its place, something Sam couldn't help but find disturbing. It was the look Dean gave when he was telling a lie.

**

_There's only one problem, really._

Sam was dreaming. He knew the voice, though, and dream or no, he sat up in bed and growled. "Lucifer."

_Truth is, I'm very impressed. Famine came crawling back to me today like a wounded pet. It was a remarkable piece of work. The only question is, why is he keeping it from you? Everything he's doing with my dear little brother. Doesn't he think you can handle it?_

At least the bastard wasn't standing there. A disembodied voice was easier to handle.

_I don't want you thinking of me as some other person, Sam. I want you to start thinking of me as part of you. That's why Nick's not here. That and, he's just not in very good shape right now. _

"What do you want?"

_I want you to be yourself. You're a scholar. You ask questions. It's what you do best. I want you to keep asking them. For example, why isn't Castiel speaking to both of you?_

"Cas has always been close to Dean. I'm not..."

_But you could both use the information, right? If that's all that he's doing, giving Dean information. What could he possibly want to hide from you? Castiel is an angel, isn't he? He's one of the good guys._

"Not all angels are good guys. In case you hadn't noticed."

_Mm. So true_. _All the more reason to worry. You know, if I were you, I'd follow him. I'd go find out exactly what they're doing. And if it isn't what you think-- if there's another reason he's keeping you out--_

"Like what?" Sam slammed his palm down on the bed. "What are you trying to imply?"

_Nothing in particular. But it's a nasty thing to be left out. To have the feeling the person you admire most in the world just doesn't think you measure up. I know, I've been there.  
_  
"I'm not following him."

_No, of course you're not. It's not the kind of person you are. See, Sam, I don't want you to be anyone but you. I like you just as you are. So do what feels right to you. And I'm sure everything will work out in the end._

Sam looked around in vain, trying to see the voice as coming from anything but his own head, voicing anything but his own doubts. "Damn it," he muttered. 'Just leave me alone."

_Very well. Good night, Sam. _

"Go to hell."

He was met with silence. Sam settled down into bed and put his pillow over his head, shutting out the rest of this dream.

_Oh. One more thing._

He squeezed his eyes closed.

_I decided to go back to where everything began. Where your father set you boys on the path toward becoming what you are. Where your mother died. And I've made some discoveries here that I think you'd be interested in. _ _Just in case you decide you want to talk some more. I'll be here._

**to be continued**


	4. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The caravan starts to move. Sam calls bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose a version of the Four Horsemen mythology for this fic that described the fourth not as Pestilence but as Evil.

It took Bobby another night to get back to health. Dean stayed up with him specifically so he could give him the riot act for thinking he could subsist on nothing but water. Upon the first nag, Bobby fixed him with a blistering look. "I couldn't afford to get sick," he barked. "If there was a chance there was something in the food supply, I couldn't take it. This old body's not as good at fighting as it used to be."

"Bull, Bobby. You're more of a soldier now than you ever were."

"Well, there's no point denying it," Bobby shrugged. "Ever since I put on 25 years a while back, I've known that I haven't got forever." His mustache twitched. "But I didn't drop dead. That tells me that if I take good care of myself, I could have a good two and a half decades left. So I didn't want to screw that up."

"And starving yourself was self-protection." Dean put his feet up on the couch, and Bobby slapped at them, irritated.

"Well, how was I supposed to know the whole point was to make me starve to death?" Bobby grumbled.  "Anyway, I suppose your angel friend helped you make those warding charms. Nice work."

Dean scratched his neck. "Remind me to tell you more about those someday, Bobby."

"What's with that?"

"No, nothing." Dean patted Bobby on the shoulder. "Get some sleep."

Bobby eventually took Dean up on his advice, but Dean himself slept fitfully,  He kept seeing the relief on people's faces when they picked up those charms, Sam's sudden change of heart. That belief in him that he'd begged Sam to have, vindicated, or so Sam thought. He hated knowing that he was deceiving every one of them.

**

Sam broke in with the first rays of dawn. "I know where Lucifer is," he said.

Bobby was awake, but Dean had fallen asleep on a chair by the bed and made several annoyed, snorting sounds before he could find coherence.

"He's in Lawrence," Sam said hurriedly, pulling up a chair. "He's at our old house. He told me-- he told me he'd discovered something there that I should know about it."

"What?" Dean was still shaking himself awake.

"I don't know. He just told me that if I wanted to come, that's where he'd be."

"Well, isn't that nice of him," Bobby said. His flat tone had regained the power that it had been missing before. "Sending you a personal invite."

"It makes sense," Dean said sourly, getting to his feet and stretching out. "He can't find you, so he tries to get you to come to him. We're not the only ones who can lay a trap."

"It's good news, right?" Sam said. "I mean, if we know where he is, we can go after him."

"It's a trap." Bobby and Dean said in unison.

"Well, yeah, but since when has that ever stopped us? Plus, look outside." Sam gestured at the window. "We aren't exactly on our own in this. Maybe it's time to stand and fight."

"Don't be stupid," Bobby snapped, but Dean crossed to the window. Outside was everything he was confronting, everything he'd have to face in one final screwing-up of his courage. God, this was going to _suck._

"Dean?" Sam looked across at him. "What are you thinking?"

Clenching his right hand into a fist, Dean turned to him. "I'm thinking, this is going to be a hell of a road trip," he said cheerfully as his nails bit into his skin.

**

The good news was, it was a pretty straightforward journey. South of South Dakota was Nebraska. South of that was Kansas. So as long as the group headed south, there wasn't much getting lost. And this was a group of hunters, after all: CB radios were in as ample supply as cell phones, and there were probably a good number of folks who could do smoke signals if necessary.

Unfortunately, apart from the direction, there was no clue what the travel would bring. Lucifer could let them come unhindered, or he could send tempests and tornadoes against them. One thing they wouldn't have was the element of surprise. A hundred hunters were pretty damn hard to conceal.

Bobby briefed the leaders of the caravans the night before, laying out maps on a folding card table in the middle of the yard. As final preparations and packing-up ensued, one of the women took the protective charm from the door to her van and brandished it in front of Bobby. "Is this going to protect us?" she asked.

Blindsided by the question, Bobby blinked. "I suppose you'd have to ask Dean about that," he said.

"Where is he?"

And then, from another corner -- "Yes, let's hear from Dean."

"Maybe he has something else that could help us."

Like a sudden gust of wind, Dean's name rippled through the crowd. Bobby watched the group turn as one and begin moving toward the house, leaving him and his half-laid plans stupidly, lamely in the background. He shouted protests, sounding as ornery as he could, then grabbed his maps and his notes and wheeled after them only to discover, with a sinking of his heart, that Dean had come out to meet them.

"All right," he was saying. "All right. Listen. This isn't going to be easy, all right? But I'll be fighting with you." Bobby snorted to himself at the sentiment. As though just having that yahoo there would make everything easier. But as he wheeled himself over to the ramp, faces in the crowd came into view, and those faces were glowing with hope. It made him want to throw up a little.

He made sure to pinch Dean where it hurt on his way inside.

The next morning they headed out, a hundred hunters armed to the teeth and ready for the long drive and longer fight. Bobby in his jalopy led the parade, with Dean and Sam in the Impala close behind. A stranger collection of vehicles had never been seen -- a Rolling Thunder rally this wasn't. Careful to stay under the speed limit, wary of anything that could halt their progress southward, the macabre Macy's Parade hurtled along toward a final showdown.

**

_You're coming. I can't tell you how happy that makes me, Sam. We have so much to talk about._

Another damn dream. This time he was in the car. He didn't remember dozing off, and the ride had been so mind-numbingly tedious that he was stuck in it even in dreamland, with Dean beside him listening to bad music and batting at the steering wheel.

Even in a dream, it'd be weird to talk to himself in front of Dean, so Sam kept his answer internal. _I'm not coming to make you happy._

Of course you're not, Lucifer's voice replied. _But you're coming. I do wish you weren't bringing the entourage._

Sam frowned at his reflection in the window glass. _Bite me._

_A tempting offer. But we have some business to take care of first. _

What business?

_That angel your brother's so fond of. Castiel. He needs to go. He's not on your side, Sam. He never has been._

Sam glanced at Dean. _I don't know what you're talking about._

Do you think angels don't feel jealousy? Possession? Castiel thinks he owns Dean. He's trying to steal him away from you, Sam. He's whispering meaningless secrets in his ear, trying to entice him. Have you asked him about those sigils yet? Those oh-so-powerful protection charms?

One hung from the rear-view mirror. Sam watched the cardboard disk bounce. _What about them?_

You know they're worthless, right? They do nothing. It's all a mass hallucination. Faith healing.

You're crazy. Cas wouldn't lie to Dean. Sam shook his head. Dean's eyes darted over, rested on his, then on the charm, then returned to the road ahead.

_Oh, he didn't. Dean knew very well what he was doing. Castiel was the one who convinced him to lie to everyone. Lie to you, Sam. Of course, if you're just going to take his word for it, who can blame you? But if you do decide to ask, I think you'll find I'm right._

Sam looked at Dean. He was back to tapping out a happy rhythm on the steering wheel, clueless and carefree. It occurred to him then that this wasn't a dream -- he hadn't been asleep at all.

**

The first pit stop of the first day was a strip mall on the South Dakota/Nebraska border. Plenty of different restaurants for people to choose from, and while at least a quarter of the crowd went for the greasy-spoon diner, there were those who decided on Mongolian barbecue or foot-long sandwiches instead. Still, Dean could feel the eyes on him from the minute he sat down, and halfway through the meal he got up and muttered, "I have to go clear my head," stomping unceremoniously away from the half-finished cheeseburger.

Sam and Bobby watched him go, then looked at each other. "If he's taken up smoking, I'm gonna whup that boy's ass," Bobby declared, but his expression was far sourer than mere tobacco deserved.

Sam's grimace answered his. "I don't think it's a cigarette break," he said, craning his neck to watch Dean's figure amble out the door and past the windows.

Behind the strip mall there was a wooded area. The air was pungent with fumes from the dumpsters, but it felt real, the unique Midwestern blend of industry and farmland. Castiel was sitting on a wide tree stump that had once been home to a monster oak.  Dean locked eyes with him, then came over and kicked at the rotting bark.

"They're looking at me," he said. "Everywhere I go, it's like people are expecting me to say something or do something. I feel like a frigging idiot."

"You inspired them," Castiel replied.

"I didn't like it. I don't like acting like I have Heaven on my side when the truth is, if it weren't for Michael, they'd probably spank me silly." Dean kicked the stump again, then sank down onto it, hanging his head and running a hand through his hair. "Tell me this is worth it, Cas."

"You have an army that is willing to fight alongside you," Castiel said. "That in itself is worth so much."

"Yeah, I know." Dean tilted his head to look at him. "I just hope the timing on this thing is right. I still don't know enough to beat this guy."

"I'll keep teaching you. Whatever I know."

Dean shoved Castiel's body gently with his own, a friendly nudge. "Thanks. Hey, maybe soon I'll be able to protect them all with more than fake charms. Right?"

Castiel nodded. Behind a dumpster on the edge of the building, Sam caught his breath, and his eyes widened.

**

In the car after lunch, Sam took down the charm from the rear view mirror and turned it over in his hands. "So what does it say?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"What?"

"What does it say? Is it some sort of ancient language?"

A bead of sweat appeared on the edge of Dean's forehead. "Not exactly. It's... all kinds of angel mumbo-jumbo. You know. Like the stuff Crowley had on the outside of his house."

"Really." Sam frowned. "Because you know what it looks like to me?"

"What's that?"

He tossed it roughly at Dean. "Crap, that's what. It looks like crap."

Dean dodged it, glanced nervously at him and returned his eyes deliberately to the road. "Sorry you don't like my taste in interior decorating, Sammy."

"Doesn't it make you embarrassed?" Sam said. "I mean, it's one thing to lie to everyone else about the things, but hanging it on your own mirror like it actually means something to you?"

Another bead of sweat joined the first. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't you?" Sam sat back in the seat, the leather molding around his frame as he folded his arms over his chest. "You're going to lie to me, Dean, at least have the decency to come clean when I call you on it."

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel, and his jaw turned to iron. The radio hissed with the static between stations, and the engine growled as they ate up the road. The silence lasted just as long as it could.

"Dean."

"Listen, Sammy." Eyes turned to his, and their look was half-guilt, half-warning. "The key to the whole thing is faith. It's about believing. Just like I said before. That part wasn't a lie. If we believe in it, it'll work out. Not just you and me. Everybody."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this from you, of all people, Dean!" Sam smacked the dashboard with a sudden swinging palm. "You don't even believe what angels tell you."

"Oh, well, maybe I should have." Dean's mouth quirked into a sarcastic sneer. "Maybe I should have gone back and done whatever that dick Zachariah told me to. Is that what you're saying?"

"No, of course not. I just can't believe..." Sam sighed. "I can't believe you took that chance, put all those people in danger."

"I didn't put them in danger."

"You gave them a fake charm and told them it would solve their problems, Dean. What if we'd been wrong about Famine? What if the food really had been poisoned?"

"But we weren't. It wasn't."

"We didn't know that."

"Oh, what if, what if!" A slam on the steering wheel. "Let's ask a few more of those questions while we're at it. What if you hadn't started slurping bitch juice? What if you hadn't killed Lilith? Oh, wait, you _did." _Dean's face was sour. He twisted the knob on the radio past a frantic preacher into another stretch of musicless static.

Sam twitched. "That's not fair."

"Like hell it's not. It's the same thing. I never jumped down your throat for starting the damn apocalypse, did I? Now you're chewing me out for doing something that actually _helped_? Where the hell are your priorities, Sam? God damn it!"

"Dean." Sam took in several breaths, trying to calm himself. "I just... I don't know where you are on this. You're letting people believe you're some kind of miracle worker. You know they're trying to make you their leader, right? People are starting to talk about you like you're God or something."

"That's bullshit, Sammy--"

"Is it? Haven't you felt them staring at you? How would they feel if they knew you'd been lying to them all this time?"

And real fear came into Dean's eyes for the first time. "You wouldn't."

"No, Dean, no, I wouldn't." He sounded resigned. "I guess I'm just hoping you will. Eventually."

Dean heaved a long breath and forced himself to say it. "Thanks, Sam."

Round eyes slid toward his. "I just hope you know what you're doing," Sam said, and he shifted in his seat to gaze out the window.

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "Yeah, me too."

**

Nebraska seemed like such a random state. It wasn't a Dakota, it wasn't the home of a girl named Dorothy or a fine mountain range or a city called St. Louis or New Orleans, it was just sort of there, smack in the middle of the United States, the missing keyhole in the center with nothing to recommend its existence. Lucifer really couldn't figure out why on earth it was still on the map. He sort of cherished the idea of knocking it off, quite frankly.

Sam was on his way, and he was bringing that troublesome army of hunters there with him. Not that, with Death as his right-hand man, Lucifer needed any help getting rid of them. But there were four horseman, and he had kept the fourth in his back pocket as a trump card. What better place to unleash him than the state without a reason for being? So when the adorable army of rednecks crossed the border, Lucifer whispered, and that whisper went out to a thousand million dens of depravity and malice across the country. And a wave of Evil began its long, swift march toward the middest of the Midwest states.

**to be continued**


	5. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean sneaks away to see Castiel. The army faces its first attack.

Bobby was not a happy camper.

They'd tented up for the night in some farmland owned by the cousin of one of the hunters on board. The nice thing about the Midwest was how flat it was, so Bobby didn't have any trouble getting around like he might have if the devil had, say, holed up in the Rockies. Thank goodness for small favors.

But Bobby was having trouble being happy about the whole situation. Even though it was he who'd arranged the whole thing, he who'd called everyone and gotten them together and made sure they were equipped and even though he was the one who drove up front, leading this parade. This was the hunt of his life, and he was damn proud of his efforts.

So why was the whole camp in Deanapalooza mode?

Everywhere he looked. "Oh, I heard Dean has the angels on his side." "Oh, I heard he _is _an angel." "Does he look like Brad Pitt to you? Just a little?" It was enough to curl a man's whiskers. And Bobby loved Dean like a son, but the boy wasn't Jesus. Hell, he wasn't even Springsteen. It was a little stomach-turning, to be perfectly frank about it.

When it got bad enough, Bobby went to talk to his old friends. Travis was 10 years older than Bobby and still looked like a bodybuilder, with tattoos everywhere his muscles were and hair everywhere the tattoos weren't. He was standing by the edge of the camp when Bobby wheeled up, surveying the impromptu group that had gathered around Dean and were peppering him with questions.

"He reminds me a little of John, back in the day," Travis drawled, chewing on something that probably wasn't gum.

"Yeah," Bobby retorted, "the pompous asshole part."

"Look at him," Travis said. "He draws a crowd, just like his daddy used to. Good with the ladies, too." He nodded toward the group. Dean had his hand on a girl's chin and was saying something very earnestly (and very close) to her.

"Like I said, a pompous asshole."

"You sound a little jealous." Travis spit out whatever definitely wasn't gum and leaned against the side of his truck, folding his big Popeye arms and looking skeptically down at Bobby.

It hurt to hear, but Bobby wasn't dumb. He knew himself well enough after all these years. "I am. A little."

"Don't be." Travis laid a big hand on Bobby's shoulder. "It's the way of the world, my friend. People are always looking for something new. Something younger, better, more exciting. They want to believe in that."

"Yeah, I know." Bobby looked at the ground. "That's kind of the problem."

**

Dean was sick of it.

Attractive women throwing themselves at him nonetheless, he was getting a little tired of being asked for the millionth time to tell the story of when he and Sam were trapped in bizarre fairy tales or found the only known vampire nest to swear off human blood or a million other stories that had been stretched a mile long by the time they went around the camp and back again. It was pretty amusing at first, the only silver lining to the cloud of having to put himself out there as a leader, but now he was getting damn sick of it.

Truth was, all he wanted was to find Cas.

The minute they crossed over into Nebraska, the whole feeling had changed. He'd suddenly realized they were just a single state away from their objective, and he still didn't have even the beginnings of a plan for how they were going to defeat Lucifer once they reached him. He'd been learning from Cas for weeks now, ever since the night of Ellen and Jo's death, throughout the whole gathering-troops and training and planning phases. But between them they still hadn't been able to figure out what it was that Castiel knew that Lucifer was afraid of. It had to be something. But none of the spells and lore that Castiel recounted, in long and drawn-out lecture sessions, seemed to point up a single clue. 

It didn't dampen Dean's enthusiasm for the whole thing. Just being with Cas, learning from him, was exciting in his own right. For once in his life he was the one with the powerful secrets, he was the one learning things no human was meant to know. And Cas was a good teacher. His voice drew Dean in, almost hypnotically. The knowledge flowed from him and drove itself deep into Dean's head. When he was a kid, Dean used to joke that if he slept on his textbooks, the material would sift in through osmosis; this seemed like the closest thing to it.

 But first he had to extract himself from the fangirls, who reminded him somewhat of the greasy guys at the Supernatural convention only more zealous, better-built, and more capable with firearms. Which didn't make getting out of there much easier.

Still, somehow he managed, and when he saw a tan-clad figure sitting on a fence at the opposite side of the field he managed to jog over without attracting too much attention. "They're crazy," he said, leaning over to lay his hands on his knees and catch his breath.

After a moment he straightened up, "Cas, Sam knows."

Concern tightened the dark features. "Did you tell him?"

"He figured it out. I couldn't lie to him about it." He shook his head. "He was pretty mad. He said I'd been deceiving everyone, that I was taking too many chances, that I'm doing it for selfish reasons."

"The same worries you have yourself."

"Well, yeah." Dean shrugged. "Doesn't make them any easier to hear."

Was Cas' lower lip sticking out, just a tiny bit? It sure seemed like it. "I'm sorry you have to deal with this," he said.

"It's the only way, I know, blah blah." Dean hopped up onto the fence next to him. "Hey, Cas-- what's it like?"

"What?"

"Paradise. What they're all fighting for." He swept a hand across the empty expanse as though to point out an invisible horde of angels.

"I don't know."

"You don't even know what it is you broke me out of the pit for?"

A sardonic smile touched Castiel's lips. "That's part of the reason I stopped following orders. I had thought my superiors had a better idea than I did, but as time went on I began to realize nobody knows what it is they're fighting for anymore."

"Speak for yourself," Dean teased, "I know what I'm fighting for."

Castiel turned to gaze at him. "I do, too."

"What, then?"

"For you."

His gaze was level. Dean stared back at him, open-mouthed.

"I don't get it," he said, certain he sounded even more dumb and Neanderthal than usual. His jaw was slack and unresponsive.

But Castiel's expression was mild. "You know what you're fighting for," he said. "I want to help you attain it."

Dean shook his head as though Castiel had just spoken to him in Chinese. "Yeah, but... why?"

Now, finally, Castiel's gaze held some confusion, but there was a tenderness there too, and more than a little amusement. It was a look Dean had rarely seen from him, and he wasn't sure how to take it.

"You're the one who told me," Castiel said gently. "Because it's the right thing to do."

And Dean broke into a smile. "Damn straight it is." Impulsively, he put an arm around him, squeezing the trenchcoated shoulders with a snort.

Castiel relaxed slowly into the embrace, his body weight shifting to lean on Dean for support. His hand knocked gently against Dean's. It was the first time they'd had any kind of familiar, lingering touch between them, and it felt to Dean like an affirmation, like something warm and golden.

Castiel murmured the same sentiment with a note of surprise, "This feels good."

"Yeah, well, don't talk so much about it," Dean said. "It's embarrassing."

He thought he felt Castiel's shoulders rise and fall in a brief chuckle. Amused at the concept of the angel learning to laugh, he spread the fingers of his hand over the ball of Castiel's shoulder and gave a sigh of contentment.

Then he saw the shadows moving across the field.

"Cas," he hissed, hopping down from the fence. "What the hell are those?"

_Those_ were a thousand different shapes and sizes, animals and creatures and what looked like people, speeding toward the caravan too fast for human legs. A low wail split the air, and the buzz of hisses and cackles and roars became faster. And behind the throng, a mass of black smoke, moving as one...

From both sides. Headed for the camp.

**  
   
Fires blazed bright under the clear sky, lighting the gleaming sides of cars and illuminating the rush of activity in sharp black shadows against the grass. Guns tossed from the back of pickup trucks into the outstretched hands of hunters. Protection charms, more potent but less impressive than the ones Dean had given out, were passed from hand to hand and looped hurriedly around necks, ankles, belts. Salt was pushed into bullet shells; hands were clasped in prayer; rifles were bolstered onto steady shoulders. The moonlight was slowly fading to black as the sky thickened with demons.

"Salt circle's not going to hold them out for long," Bobby thundered, "Remember the plan. Get everyone up and in."

They weren't so stupid as to think they wouldn't get attacked. In fact, they were damn lucky that it happened now, while they were bolted down to the campsite. The foot-wide ring of salt around the camp was just a mask for a much larger devil's trap, painstakingly carved by the hunter whose cousin owned the land to trap anything that might come after his family. The demons could bat themselves crazy trying to get through the salt  ring, but by the time they were up against it, they were already in.

It wasn't foolproof. The minute the other creatures saw what was up, they'd know to stay out. But it at least bought some time to get a running start while the bloodthirsty sons of bitches were still pouring into a trap.

Sam was helping families to their cars, making sure the backseat riders had guns to fire at any demon that pursued them. Every so often he cast a worried look around, asked, "Has anyone seen Dean?" But there was no sign of him. Distressed, feeling powerless, Sam poured himself into getting everything ready. He had no great desire to be the man pulling the trigger. Better that people should get out safely. Bobby could see to the heavy artillery.

Finally, one of the hunters pointed eastward. "I saw him go out that way. There was a guy waiting for him..."

"Castiel," Sam muttered, and ran toward the east end of the camp.

They were surrounded now, waves of spirits and ghouls, the barking of hellhounds and the shrieking of demon smoke through the cold air from all directions. But as Sam came up against the edge of the salt barrier he could see Dean, loping in his wide gait toward the back end of the throng, and even over the din he heard the scream of his own name.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. "Go back!" He shot into the throng, trying to thin the crowd. "There's too many, you'll never make it inside!"

Dean had a revolver in his hand, and he was trying to shoot his way through the mass. Black smoke curled and burned into nothing in the air where his bullets coursed through the thick of it. "I'm on my way!" he shouted.

"You can't, get back!" Sam's throat was starting to hurt, and his pulse was hammering in his chest. What the hell did Dean think he was doing, charging into a mosh pit of demons like that? Sam had not come all this way to watch Dean throw himself off a cliff. He turned back to the camp to shout for more firepower to help him clear a path.

On that side, the demons had finally broken the circle and were streaming into the camp. The night was heavy with the crackling sound of gunfire. Engines revved desperately, and tires squealed away as screams pierced his ears. A gang of black dogs were pacing menacingly around a pitched tent where, Sam realized to his horror, people were still trapped. Torn, he screamed one final "Back!" to Dean before tearing over to the other side to train his gun on the demonic animals.

A second later, light ripped through the sky.

Sam thought for a frightening moment that a bomb had gone off. He shielded his eyes and turned-- as the whole camp did, in stunned unison-- to see a path had been blazed through the swarm of demons and monsters, wide as the lane on a highway. The smell of burning filled the air, and some of the more corporeal beasts lay, withered carcasses, along the path. The cloud of ash that sat like a gritty mist around them was probably all that was left of the rest.

A figure walked stiffly, hand outstretched, into the gap left. His palm glowed with the remains of the light. Sam stepped forward, sure it had been Castiel, but the face that came into resolution -- gritty with resolve and eyes dark-- was Dean's.

**to be continued**


	6. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam talks to Bobby. Sam talks to Castiel. Sam talks to Dean. Sam stops talking and acts.

Sam could only stutter Dean's name as his brother, palms faintly glowing with the aftermath of power, strode confident and straight through a field that a minute ago had been crawling with monsters. When he reached the salt circle, he stepped carefully over it, and his lips turned upward into a grin. "What's up, Sammy?" he said, as though he'd simply crossed the street to say hi.

"What-- what in the hell was that?" Sam said.

"A couple of tricks Cas taught me," Dean said with a shrug. "Good stuff, huh?"

"Good stuff?"

"Are you an echo machine?" Dean patted him on the shoulder. His hand felt sort of hot, though the glow had winked itself out. "Come on, let's get that circle fixed up." He began to traverse the perimeter of the camp, picking up a loose bag of salt on the side of one tent post while he was at it.

"But the demons are already--" Sam turned to follow him, and saw that the cloud of dark creatures was receding -- no, retreating-- to the horizon. Those that had made it inside the devil's trap were cowering at its rim as groups of hunters closed in on them with every manner of gun, stake and other demon-killing weapon they had. In the center of the caravan, others were stitching and dabbing at their own wounds and those of others. Slowly, as Dean approached, all eyes turned to him.

He faced them. "You guys put up a good fight tonight," he said with an easy smile. "You really kicked some demon tail."

"No, you did," came a voice from the crowd.

He waved it away. "Nah, I just came in at the end. You guys did all the heavy lifting," he said. It was as disingenuous as Sam had ever seen him; almost a caricature of himself, soaking in the flattery even as he protested. Sam's fist clenched around the butt of his rifle, and his brow furrowed.

"Frigging full of himself, that's what he is," Bobby grumbled to himself as he wheeled past.

Sam couldn't help but murmur an assent. "I know, right?"

Bobby turned in surprise. He looked at Sam approvingly. "Well, go on!"

Encouraged, pleased to find a kindred spirit in this distrust, Sam folded his hands over his chest. "You know, when I was trying to save people, when I was trying to be a big hero it was such a horrible thing. 'You shouldn't be using your power. You shouldn't be saving people. It's not right.' Now look at him. He thinks because it's not a demon it's any different? Think about what the angels have tried to make him do!"

"You know what the problem is," Bobby said, "is, he thinks he's indispensable. He's convinced himself that none of us can put on our own pants in the morning without his help. And they're not helping."

Dean was showing an attractive young woman how to reload her gun faster. Sam had a feeling that, to coin a phrase, his own gun was pretty fully loaded. "I can't watch," he said, turning around and ready to stomp for the Impala.

Castiel was standing there.

"Oh, God, not now," Sam moaned.

"I need to talk to you."

"Me? Why the big change? I thought Dean was the only guy you needed to talk to."

"Alone," Castiel said, his sharp eyes turning on Bobby.

A second passed by. "Well, don't mind me, I'm just the guy in the wheelchair. Completely irrelevant," Bobby snapped, turning his chair abruptly around and grumbling all the way back to his own truck.

Sam followed Castiel for a dozen paces before being unable to hold his anger in any longer. "What the hell are you doing to him?"

"Dean tells me you know that the charms were fake," Castiel said. "I need to know you won't betray the secret."

"Why?" Sam flung an arm out in a wide arc. "Afraid it might embarrass him? It might hurt his feelings?"

"It is very important that these people believe in Dean." Castiel's voice didn't waver. "It's crucial to their survival."

"Oh, please." Kicking the ground, Sam rolled his eyes. "These are career hunters. They know how to handle themselves. They don't need Dean or anyone else to save them."

"Sam." Castiel very rarely said his name, and it gave Sam the prickles to hear it now. "I need you to keep this secret."

"Or what? You'll strike me down?"

"You know that's not--"

"Then don't give me this crap!" Sam lost it, shoving Castiel roughly but unable to move him. He fumed at the uselessness of his body against an angel's resolve. "You don't get to tell me what to do, and you sure as hell don't get to tell Dean what to do. He is not your-- your toy savior, or whatever you think he is. He's my brother, and I'm going to do what's best for him."

Castiel took a step forward, and his eyes blazed. "What's best for him,' he said levelly but with a trace of menace, "is keeping this secret. Not only that, it's best for you and everyone around here. If these people did not believe in him, you would all be dead right now. I guarantee you that."

He returned the shove, and it was strong enough to send Sam stumbling back, face to the ground. When he regained his footing and looked up again, Castiel was gone.

**

_You don't trust him._

the voice in his head didn't make him jump this time. For better or for worse, Sam was getting used to the fact that Lucifer could communicate with him like this, and quite possibly read his thoughts, too. All he could do was reply. "I don't trust what he's doing to Dean," he muttered as he lay down in the back seat of the car and pulled a blanket over his body. It was usually Dean's province, while Sam took a sleeping bag by the side of the road, but Sam had a feeling Dean wouldn't be in his own makeshift bed tonight.

_He's more powerful than even he knows. And I worry that you're going to see the effects of that power filter down into your brother._

"Who's more powerful? Castiel?" A half-smile lit Sam's face. "You sound almost scared of him."

_I wouldn't call it scared. I'm simply aware of how dangerous he is. I don't want you to lose your brother, Sam. Unlike the other side, which is only interested in putting me down, whether or not you're in the line of fire._

Of all the things Lucifer did, Sam hated it most when he made sense. "Do me a favor," he snapped. "Just lay off the your-side's-better talk for one night, would you?"

_Whatever you say._

"Good." He turned over and drew the blanket over his head. "Oh, and for the record, I'm not buying it. Any of it. I haven't forgotten what you are."

_Fine, fine. Just think about one thing. Have I been wrong so far?_

**

Morning. The day was beautiful. Folks were out and about, patching up shattered car windows and folding up their tents for another day of driving. Dean was perched on the fence, wolfing down a sandwich. Sam approached him, squinting from the rays of the sun. "So. You think you can kill the devil with that?"

"Oh, hey, Sammy. Did you see that chick from Las Vegas? Guess what she does when she's not staking vamps. I got a private show." He whistled.

Sam leaned on the fence next to him. "Seriously, Dean. Do you think that thing you pulled last night is powerful enough to destroy Lucifer?"

Dean glanced at his palm. "I don't know. Maybe, I guess."

"Look, Dean."  Sam tilted his head to look up at his brother, sitting a head taller than him on the tall wooden slats of the fence. "I'm worried about you. I know you say I should just trust you, but..." He sighed. "All this new power. And the deceit. I just wonder if you know what path you're taking."

Dean grinned. "Sure I do. South on the interstate as far as Kansas City, then--"

"I'm serious."

Dean swallowed and rocked forward a little. "I know you are. But I really need you to trust me on this, Sam."

"I want to. I do. It's just that-- well, look at it this way. When you first met Castiel, you didn't trust him as far as you could throw him. What happened that he's suddenly your best friend?"

"Huh?" Dean looked truly bewildered. He wiped his hands on his jeans and jumped down. "He's been helping us-- both of us-- for weeks now. What are you talking about?"

Anger twitched Sam's eyebrow. "I'm talking about you and Cas. Something weird's going on between you two, and it makes me nervous."

Dean opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it and frowned hard. "Wait," he said finally, carefully. "Are we talking Ocean's Eleven weird or are we talking Brokeback Mountain weird? Because I think you've got the wrong idea here."

"Have I?" A full-on frown darkened Sam's face. "Because you know what I think? I think he has a crush on you."

This made Dean sputter. "What!?"

"In some weird, twisted angel way. I think he thinks you're the answer to everything, and he keeps telling you that, and now you're buying into his hype. Not only that, you're letting everyone believe it. Think about it, Dean. Did it ever occur to you that he's just plain wrong about some of this? That he doesn't know what he's doing any more than we do?"

"He knows. Sam, listen to me..."

"You know what? I don't want to." Sam turned and paced away a few steps. "I think it's time I went to find my own answers instead of just believing whatever you say, Dean. That's not my style."

"Sammy, wait."

But Sam was stalking away, and even with his back turned it was obvious that he would hear no more. With a sigh, Dean turned back and landed a sharp kick on the fence. It gave a satisfying creak.

"Do you think he'll tell?"

Castiel's voice was uncomfortably close to his ear. Dean jumped. "What the hell, man?" In response, Castiel stood back but was silent.

It took Dean a moment to reorient himself. "I don't know," he said. "I don't think so. Cas, what in the hell did I do last night? I just lifted my hand--" He repeated the motion. "--and _bam_."

"It was a function of these people's belief in you," Castiel replied. "They wanted you to exhibit power, so you did."

"I'm still having trouble with this whole concept of believing actually changing what happens."

"That's the way it used to be in ancient times," Castiel said, a touch wistfully. "Moses lifted his rod, and an entire nation believed he could part the sea with it, so he did. But the world has become so full of skeptics, and so enamored with science and proof, that mass belief has become ineffective as a weapon."

"I guess when you realize the world's ending, you start needing something to believe in," Dean muttered.

A nod. "The pump was primed. Only a catalyst was needed." 

Dean looked across the camp. Sam had disappeared from sight, and he saw only a mass of cars and trucks, folks milling about, trash littering the land around them where it hadn't already been torn up by demonic attacks. It was a mess, and it reminded Dean of nothing so much as a parking lot after a really good concert. The only thing missing was blaring stereo music and the occasional drunken shout. That, and the sense that anyone was having fun.

He turned back to look at Cas. He looked the same as usual -- short, earnest, sharp-jawed and with his gaze singularly fixed on Dean. Those eyes never seemed to waver, and for the first time in a long time, that made Dean a little uncomfortable. He chewed on his lip a moment. "Hey, Cas, can I ask you something weird?"

A frown crossed Castiel's face. "Sure," he said.

"Sam said... he said you and I were acting weird." An embarrassed pause, then he forced it out. "He said he thought you had a crush on me or something."

Castiel's head tilted. "He thinks I am in love with you?"

Dean forced out a laugh. "Pretty crazy, huh?"

"I'm not sure," said Castiel thoughtfully.

Dean blinked. It took him a minute to force his jaw into motion. "What do you mean you're not sure?"

"I have trouble telling the difference between 'love' and what is called 'being in love.' Love is universal. God is love. But being in love is a phrase I have only heard among humans."

"So you think you feel one but not the other?"

Castiel frowned. "I would think that would be obvious."

"No. No, not obvious." Dean gave another nervous laugh. "Not even close to obvious. Look, Cas, you're a nice, erm, angel and all, but--"

"I did not realize this would upset you," Castiel said. "I apologize."

His voice didn't betray it, but Dean thought he saw a wince flicker through Castiel's features. "No, don't be sorry," he said. "It's, uh, sweet. That you care about me. I mean, I care about you, too. You're a friend."

And Castiel smiled. Just slightly, just enough. "That makes me glad to hear," he said.

The look on his face overwhelmed Dean, and completely without thinking, he stepped forward. His heart dully thudding, he found Castiel's hand and gave it a brief squeeze. They stared at each other.

"Um... Dean?"

Their heads turned in unison. One of the young hunters, a ruddy fellow with a scar across his tanned shoulders, was standing there. Behind him trailed about a half-dozen others.

Castiel glanced meaningfully at Dean, who nodded and slid his hands into his jeans pockets, rocking back on his heels. "What can I do for you, my friend?" he said with a wide smile.

The  man was obviously nervous. "Well, um. Bobby said from now on we should check with you if we're ready to go, and we're ready to go."

Dean frowned. "Wait, Bobby said what?"

"He said that while he's off on reconnaissance, we should take our direction from you."

"Recon-- what?" His heart suddenly sinking, Dean pushed past the man. Others were starting to speak up now, questions thrown at him like darts, but Dean couldn't hear them. He raced across the camp toward the cluster of cars and trucks, shouting Bobby's name. He already sort of knew what he was going to find, but it didn't make it any easier when he came to the end of the campsite, out of breath, and still couldn't find Bobby's truck.

It was gone. And there was no sign of Sam anywhere.

**to be continued**


	7. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Bobby are off on a secret mission. Dean gets assaulted, and not just by screaming fans. Death comes to play, and he brings a friend.

When the phone rang, Sam took a look at Bobby. They shared a grimace, and Sam heaved a sigh before he pressed the button. "Yeah, hi."

"Where are you? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Sam held the phone a good six inches from his ear. "Dean, calm down."

"The hell I will! You're going down there, aren't you? You're going to run right into his trap."

"Dean, you can listen to me now or I'll hang up and call you back when you're thinking straight. Your choice."

The silence from the phone was sourer than any grumbling.

"Good. Now. Here's the thing." Sam took a breath. "I need answers. I need to know where everybody stands on this thing, and I have a hunch Lucifer knows something that could be useful information. He thinks he can manipulate me, but I can manipulate him right back. I can get him to tell me what we need to know, Dean. I have the ultimate leverage over him."

"You think you can outsmart the devil. That's just great, Sammy. And you think _I'm _full of myself."

Irritated, Sam leaned forward in the seat and clutched the phone close to his ear. "You know something? I only just now realized you only call me Sammy when you're treating me like a kid. When you don't think I'm enough of a grownup to play this game."

"That's bull."

"No, it's not. Who do you think saved your ass by winning a poker game you couldn't win?" Bobby snickered next to him, but Sam went on. "I get that you're in angel school now, but I know how to do my job too, and that's what I'm doing. My job."

"That's what this is about, isn't it?" The voice on the receiver broke with a burst of static. "You're jealous because Cas is teaching me things. For once I'm the one with the power and the secrets, and you can't handle it."

"Give me that," Bobby said, making a swipe for the phone. He snatched it out of Sam's hand in one go. "Now listen to me, you ungrateful son of a bitch. We are doing this to help you." His voice shook with rage, but as he went on some other emotion took hold, and his tone lowered still wavering. "Now those are my people out there, and they are depending on you. So don't you get so caught up in being pissed off that you forget about them."

"Bobby. Bobby." Dean had lost his words. "Why the hell are you doing this?"

"Because this is your war, not mine," Bobby said softly. "That's the way of the world." He coughed, and his voice picked up steam. "Besides, your dumbass brother needs some backup."

Sam took back the phone. "Look, Dean, I need you to believe in me now. Believe that I'm not going down there to betray you. I'm going to help. Everything's going to be fine."

"I'm coming to get you, Sammy."

"Good. I'll see you there." Sam hung up the phone and tossed it into the cup holder between the seats. Dean's grumbling protestations rung in his ears as clearly as if the phone was still picking it all up.

Bobby glanced at him. "You didn't tell him everything."

"Of course I didn't tell him everything," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

"I don't mean _that_." He frowned at Sam knowingly for a moment, then adjusted his cap and rolled his shoulders back. "I'm talking about Castiel," he said. "You're still going to try to pump Lucifer for information about him. Dean wouldn't like that."

"He wouldn't want to hear it. And besides, I don't actually think Cas is a bad guy. But I think there's more to him than meets the eye." He leaned across the dashboard and set his eyes on the horizon. "If I can find out what that is, we'll both be better off. And if what we're planning works, I'll have a chance to tell him."

"Hurm." Bobby followed his gaze. Storms were gathering in the rear view mirror, but ahead of them just lay miles of uninterrupted highway. The path had been cleared for them.

**

This would be a good time for Castiel to show up, Dean thought bitterly. A really damn good time.

There was no Castiel, though, and he wasn't even alone to punch his frustrations out on an inanimate object. No, he had people in his face wherever he went, asking him questions he didn't know the answers to, telling him information he didn't know what to do with, and constantly, _constantly_ saying his name. For a guy with an ego the size of his, he thought sardonically, it was damn impressive that he was getting sick of hearing his own name.

It was only a six-hour drive for a single car down to Lawrence, but for a caravan of a hundred it would take more than that. And Dean didn't think for an instant they'd have an uninterrupted ride. It was important to keep everyone together, and protected, Taking a deep breath, he drew out an oversized map of the area and called the group together.

"We're going to go this far today," he said, jamming the point of a knife down into a spot, "stay at a motel that's been reserved for us. It's protected. We'll stop here for eats." Another jab of the knife. "If you spot something, don't panic. Get on the CB as soon as you can and let the rest of us know. The more of us that see it, the safer you'll be. I'll keep in touch on the road."

Nobody asked questions; everyone got right to work. It was kind of amazing, actually. Maybe there was something to this leader business after all.

His confidence lasted about as far as two and a half miles from the farm site where they'd lingered. He'd just put on his favorite Metallica tape and was happily singing away when he very nearly ran down some poor schmuck just standing there in the middle of the highway.

The Impala skidded, shrieking to a halt. He jumped from the car. Behind him, the CB radios crackled as the caravan came to a lumbering, thumping stop, but Dean didn't pay any attention to the fleet. He was busy plowing forward toward the man he'd nearly run down, a skinny fellow wearing a pristine white business suit now scuffed from the road. Dean reached out an arm to help him up and saw that he was wearing the oddest pair of glasses he'd ever seen. One lens was tinted dark, like sunglasses; the other was frosted white.

"Are you all right?" he said as the man got up and dusted himself off.

"Oh, yes, fine, absolutely," the fellow said. "Especially now that Sam's gone off and left you all alone."

Eyes flashed behind the mismatched lenses. Dean staggered back.

"Guns!" he managed to yell, but by then the highway itself was buckling, tossing cars over with a clatter of crashes. An engine burst into flame; Dean turned in time to see a family leaping from the vehicle just as it exploded. Elsewhere, a woman screamed. Dean whipped around. A swarm of black clouds had appeared out of nowhere and was surrounding one of the vehicles. A power line went down, sending blue sparks arcing through the air.

A moment later shots began to ring out, and under the cover of fire Dean grabbed the man and pushed him against the car. Fabric and human flesh burned against the hot engine, but the man's expression showed no pain. "Who are you?" Dean demanded.

"That all depends on your perspective," the man said, with a blithe, banal air that made Dean want to punch the snot out of him. "Some people say I'm the worst thing they've ever seen. Others, the best. Still others don't care one way or the other, and they're the ones I like best."

"Oh, great, another cryptic son of a bitch," Dean said. "Question. Why do you all have to dress like bankers? Is there a dress code for demons or something? Because that suit, man... it's just tired."

"Then how about me?"

Dean whirled. The man who'd appeared, was clad all in black, with stringy, matted hair as dark as his clothes and white skin that seemed nearly translucent. Dean thought for sure he could see the outline of the man's skull behind the long cut of his jawbone. Behind him stood what looked to be an army of old men in suits. Reapers, Dean realized, and he knew what he was up against.

"No, man, you're a cliche," he said, swaggering forward. He fingered the gun on the inside of his jacket pocket. "You look like you just came from a Marilyn Manson concert. Take a shower."

Death smiled, and again Dean thought he could see skeletal teeth, like an X-ray, behind his closed lips. "You insult us by calling us demons, you know," he said. "We're omens. That's much different."

Dean walked a short distance from the two of them, "Oh, yeah? Different how?"

"For one thing, we can't be killed. Humans have been trying for centuries, but there's no end to Death, or War, or Famine..."

"Or Evil," the man in the white suit said, stepping to the side to join his brother.

"For another, we can do something like this." Death snapped his bony fingers.

Instantly a dozen Reapers shot out toward the caravan. moving like rays of light. Slowly but surely, screams erupted from the convoy, and Dean heard the thump of bodies falling like sandbags. He looked up at Death with fire blazing in his eyes. "Stop it," he warned in a low voice.

"Sure." Death snapped his fingers again, and the Reapers retreated. Dean could hear wails of horror. God, how many folks had just lost their lives, just so this sick bastard could prove a point? "You know what, though, Dean? I have to say, your bringing this entourage has only made us stronger. You know my brother Evil has another name, right? There are some who also call him Righteousness."

"It's all in the way you look at it," Evil piped up in his thin, tin-whistle voice.

"So I brought the righteousness and you brought the evil?" Dean said.

"Or so it seems to you," Evil said.

"It makes no difference to me," said Death. "They all come to me sooner or later. But now that you're here--"

He raised a hand. The Reapers readied themselves.

"Now!" Dean shouted, and he hit the dirt.

A spray of salt and silver flew over his head. Rolling in the dirt, Dean pulled an iron stake from his jacket and crouched near the car. Dark and light streaks coursed above him, as the hunters sprayed their rounds and fell back to reload behind the next firing line. God bless Bobby and his annoyingly unswerving drills, Dean thought. It was hard enough to get two hardened hunters working together, but he'd managed to train them to work as a unit. A minute later, he remembered he was supposed to be mad at Bobby, and he took a half-second to frown and look at the ground.

That's when the Reaper went for his throat.

It all happened in a rush faster than a breath. Dean was choking, he saw the face of Death behind the Reaper's grim visage, he couldn't move, the light started to fade. The world was blinking out.

And then he saw nothing but light and he could breathe again. He staggered forward into charred, smoking air. "Thanks, Cas," he whispered through a grit-filled throat.

"Not a problem." The familiar voice was as even, as usual, and when Dean regained his feet he saw Castiel looking pretty much exactly as expected: staring down the horsemen with sheer disgust in his eyes.

"You've killed innocent people," he said.

"What have you, grown a soul or something?" Evil chuckled. "How many have you killed? How about that meat suit you are wearing?" Castiel only looked down for a moment, but it was long enough for Evil to chuckle. "Poor thing is so conflicted. If he could only realize there's no difference. It's all in how you look at it."

"Exactly," Castiel said.

And with a flash of light, he shattered the two-toned glasses.

Evil gave a scream, covering his eyes, and fell back. The army of Reapers quaked. Castiel fell into step next to Dean. "I think I may have upstaged you temporarily," he said, and when Dean looked over his shoulder he could see an army of stunned hunters all staring at the two of them.

Dean chuckled. "I'll live. But did that do it? Is that enough to stop him?"

"Him, perhaps. But not me."

Death stepped forward. The Reaper army had ceased to be one of kindly old men in suits. They growled like wild beasts; some dropped to all fours, some remained upright, growing grotesque claws. Black fur stood up glistening on their bodies. Their teeth were sharp and dripping with saliva. Their eyes were red and glowing with bloodlust.

"Go," whispered Death.

All hell broke loose.

**

When they crossed the border into Kansas, Sam doubled over in pain.

Bobby pulled the truck to the side. "Boy. Are you all right?"

Sam clutched his temples. "He's happy," he gasped. "God damn it... he won't stop laughing in my head."

_You're almost here! I can't contain myself, Sam. We're going to have so much to talk about._

"Bastard," Sam whispered through tears and gritted teeth. "You'd better tell me what I need to know when I get there."

_I have no secrets from you, Sam. I'll tell you anything you want to know. Just come home. Come home to where you belong._

Bobby was leaning over him, the comforting presence the only warmth he had in the face of the blizzard on the horizon. "Boy. Are you sure you want to do this?" Bobby said. "We could go back, wait another day."

Sam looked up at Bobby. "No," he gasped.  "You were right. It has to be now. Keep driving." He wiped the sweat from his brow. It wouldn't be much longer.

**to be continued**


	8. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Castiel have a long, long talk. Sam arrives at the devil's doorstep. All does not go according to plan.

The sky was dark with smoke and blood.  Dean estimated he'd lost a good dozen men in the first attack; now another ten looked like they'd gone down. At this rate it looked like they'd be down to half their number by the time Death got tired and let them rest for a while.

The Reapers had become creatures Dean had never seen before. He figured that in the presence of their master, their true natures must come out. He wondered if the kind Reapers he'd known-- Tessa, and the others-- had also been transformed by Death's presence on the Earth. Just the thought of it was enough to make him angry as hell.

"Do something," came a plea from behind him, and Dean realized it was aimed at him, that these people were asking him to save them. He could at least do that much. And he'd be damned-- again-- if he was going to let these bastards keep him from getting to Sam. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it.

Castiel's fingers touched his shoulder, and he felt a jolt of warmth go through him. He glanced at the presence beside him. And suddenly everything was clear.

Power poured from his hands, and the Reaper-creatures howled in dismay as their death-rattles shook the road. Everything in front of him was blinding white; beside him, Castiel did the same. Side by side they stepped forward, beating the monsters back, hands outstretched. When they were done, and the foul smoke of burning hellbeasts was clear, they were left alone with Evil, still clutching at his eyes, and Death, who was smiling and applauding sincerely.

"Lovely," he said, "absolutely lovely. I told you, evil or good, it makes no difference to me. It all ends in Death, and you've given me quite a feast. I thank you, Mr. Winchester."

"Don't mention it," Dean said flatly. He marched up and placed his hand on that skinny, flat chest.

Death looked down, then back up at him with a sickening smile. "You can't be serious," he said. "You think a little sunshine is going to stop me?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. And do you know why?"

"Oh, please enlighten me."

"You see all those people back there?" Dean said. Keeping his palm flat on Death's chest, he shrugged over his shoulder.

"Like a buffet," Death said, licking his lips.

Dean leaned in close to drive the message home. "_Every single one _of them believes I can defeat you."

For the first time, Death looked nervous. "So what?" he said. "What does them believing some lie have to do with anything?"

"Well, nothing. But I bet it's hurting your friend there a whole lot." Dean winked, clicking his tongue, down at the wounded figure of Evil. "See, I know about you guys. I know what you bring. Despair." He looked at Death. "Apathy." He glanced at Evil. "It's all our human failings, it's all that stuff you use against us. But the problem is, when there's belief, there's no more apathy. And you have a real hard time getting despair to win..."

He turned then, slowly, and waved at the crowd. Dirty, bloodstained, and exhausted, five dozen hands went up to return the salute.

"...when there's hope."

Death's eyes went wide and bare.

The blast that went through him shone in a wide arc, illuminating the air behind him, as though the sun were rising on the road ahead. Even in the heat of it, Dean felt a chill go through him as the essence of Death fled the scene, the body he had been wearing crumbling to dark soot and burning embers.

And then he turned and happily staked Evil in the heart.

"Like _hell_ it's all in how you look at it," he said, kicking the body aside.

Castiel was staring at him. That much he could feel in his bones. But when he turned, and began to hear the other sounds around him again, Dean realized that Castiel wasn't the only one.  The hunters on the front lines, the ones who had fought off the invasion with their disciplined gunfire and iron will, were all looking at him.

And they were all cheering.

Dean gave an awkward wave. His glance to Castiel said, _What the hell?_

Castiel just shrugged. Dean thought he saw the corners of his mouth turn up.

**

They'd built over it. The house on the lot was completely different than the one Sam remembered, the one they'd gone back to visit at the beginning of their search for their father. Still, he looked at it with as much trepidation as if he had a million memories within those walls. The shapes were different, but the space was the same. What happened there had still happened, and it was still the reason he was standing there today.

An old man was raking the leaves in the yard. "Hey there, young man," he said mildly as Sam approached. "He's waiting for you inside. I think he's made you some lemonade." Just a hint of black eyes glittered in the waning afternoon light.

Sam took a deep breath, balled his fists into tight crunches, and marched on the door.

The lemonade was on a nice-looking coffee table in the living room. Photographs dotted the walls, and the whole place smelled of one of those potpourri candles. And sipping his own glass, sitting on the couch, dressed in a pair of overalls he must have filched from the fellow in the yard before his unfortunate possession, was Lucifer. He gave a big smile. "There you are. I was wondering when you were finally going to get here. Have a glass of lemonade."

Sam walked stiffly into the room.

"Oh, and you might as well take that gun and that stake out of your pocket. There are standing orders around here not to hurt you, and, well, they won't work on me. But you knew that, right?"

Shaking his head, pressing his lips into a flat expression of exasperation, Sam followed his orders. He laid out on the table a wooden stake, his revolver, and a couple of other tools for good measure.

"See, that's what I like about you, Sam. When you do something, you're straightforward about it. No deceit, no tricks. You'll be straight with me, and you know I'll be the same with you. That's why you came."

"I didn't come for small talk," Sam said with a grimace.

"No, of course you didn't. You've got questions." Lucifer set down his glass and folded his hands behind his head, putting his feet up on the coffee table. The glass cracked beneath the force of his heels. "Well, ask away. I'll answer whatever I can."

"Castiel," Sam said. "What do you know about him? Why is he dangerous?"

"Oh." Lucifer clicked his tongue. "That's the big question. You can't just go right for that, that's not fair. It'd ruin my dramatic structure. Come on, start off with something easier. I know you have more questions than that."

Sam finally gave in and sat on an easy chair across from the sofa. "Why me?"

"Oh, I think you've had that explained to you many times already. I understand my brother Gabriel actually poked his head out of hiding in order to say so?" Lucifer chuckled.

"There's any number of sons who have complicated relationships with their fathers," Sam said. "I'm hardly the only case."

"Oh, but it's you, Sam. You're the son of one who was a hunter before you were born and one who was a hunter after. Your life's always been bound up in the war between Heaven and Hell. And let's not forget the wonderful service of my dear departed friend Azazel, who did his part to make sure that you'd be ready for me." He shrugged. "I'm sorry, but this cake has been baking since before you were a twinkle in your daddy's eye."

"That's another thing I don't get," Sam said. "Why are you so intent in fulfilling this destiny? Doesn't it make you feel trapped? Like things shouldn't have to be this way?"

Lucifer's face went dark. "I'll tell you what it is to feel trapped," he said. "Trapped is having your ass locked in the dark pit for millennia, and all you can do, all you can think about, is how damned unfair it is that you're punished for loving your own father." He pounded the table. "That-- _that_\-- is what it is to feel trapped. So when you whine to me about how you want to fight your destiny, guess how much sympathy I have for you, little baby Winchester?" His eyes flashed. "Not too much."

Sam sat forward. "But all that time you've been down there," he said, "people have been making up stories about how you were going to come up and destroy the world. They think they know you, but they don't, do they? Why would you let them write your story for you? Why not prove them all wrong?"

The level intensity of his gaze seemed to flummox Lucifer, who sat up straight again, his feet hitting the floor with a house-shaking thump. "You're tenacious," he said slowly. "I like that about you, Sam, I do. This is who you really are, isn't it? A hard-nosed psychological warrior who knows what he has to do and say to get what he wants. You would have made a damn good lawyer." He chuckled. "I bet we have lots to talk about. Stay awhile. Oh, and... let's invite your friend in, shall we?"

Sam tried to get to his feet. He couldn't. The chair held him sure as any bonds. He could only twist his neck and stare in horror as the front door opened and the limp body of Bobby Singer floated in.

**

Castiel had done Dean the favor of sticking around for the afternoon ride. Once the adrenaline rush of the fight wore off, the trauma of the day began to sink in, and grief settled over the army even as they picked up and drove on toward their goal for the night. People needed Dean to hold them together, so he bucked up and did what he had to do keep people driving. But, he told Castiel, he couldn't do it if no one was there for him. So Castiel sat in the passenger seat and watched Dean with grave eyes as he picked up the CB radio to talk to his troops.

"We're all in a lot of pain," Dean said in a hard voice. "What happened today was... awful. But we're in a war now, and we cannot turn back. We all know what the stakes are. That's why we're hunters. That's why we're here."

Even when they arrived at the motel for the night, Dean couldn't relax. He was called from room to room to face intrusive questions or give a pep talk or wish a speedy recovery to a laid-up hunter who'd gotten on the wrong end of some sharp teeth. He was wavering, sweaty and exhausted by the time he finally managed to get to his own room.

His very own room. In other words, it was empty.

How weird it was to be in an empty motel room. This was supposed to be the place where he and Sam let the job go, kicked back and had a couple of beers. Without that comfort, it was just a big, empty hole.

He was about ready to start climbing the walls when the phone rang.

"Yeah?"

"Dean." Castiel's voice.

"What is it."

"May I come in?"

Dean ran to the door. Castiel was looking back through the peephole at him, phone still pressed to his ear.

With a brisk burst of laughter, Dean opened the door. "You are the most unintentionally hilarious person I have ever met," he said.

"Thank you. I think."

"I take it you're here to teach me some more angel fu," Dean said. "Unless you think what I did back there's going to be enough to kill the devil."

"No," Castiel said, "it won't. Your power has diminished with the deaths in your party. Of those who follow you, there are most likely some who are beginning to doubt you."

"So we took a hit," Dean said, sinking into a chair by the window. "I was afraid of that. All right, what else can we do?"

"I don't know." Castiel gave a sigh. "I still have not been able to discern why Lucifer was concerned about my presence that night. I'm starting to think--"

"...that we misread the whole thing, yeah," Dean said. "That we don't have any secret weapon after all."

Castiel was silent for a long moment. They didn't look at each other.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said. "You ever think that maybe, just maybe, Sam and Bobby have some kind of plan?"

The angel looked at him with sober eyes. "Yes," he said, his low, gravelly voice scraping the bottom edges of the word. "I'd almost count on it." He crossed in front of Dean, looking out the window briefly with a suspicious flicker in his eyes, then sat on the bed across from the chair where Dean was slumping. Their feet nearly touched on the carpet.

"Why do you suppose they didn't tell me about it?"

Castiel's answer was immediate, and so level that it unnerved Dean. "Perhaps for the same reason we didn't tell them."

"Hmm." Dean leaned forward, head lolling on his fists and eyes downcast. "I hate that, that I just have to trust them."

"I'm sure they hate that they just have to trust you," Castiel said.

"I don't think they do trust me."

"Of course they do. They left you in command of this army. They wouldn't do that if they didn't think you could lead it."

Dean looked up at him. "Are you trying to make me feel better?" he said.

Castiel frowned, squinting. "Of course. Should I not?"

"Not if it isn't true."

"But it is. Can't something true make you feel better?"

Dean gave a rueful chuckle. "Sorry," he said. "I guess I'm just cynical that way. The truth sucks, so if something makes you feel better, it's got to be a lie."

"That makes no sense." Castiel's puzzled expression just dragged another peal of laughter out of Dean. "Why are you laughing?"

Shaking his head, Dean got up, then perched himself on the bed next to his companion. "No reason," he said. "I'm glad you're here, that's all." He put a hand on the angel's back, flat, fingers spread. Castiel turned to the side to watch his face.

It was a quiet moment, but at some point Dean looked up and caught Castiel's eye. Something happened then, something that took the smile off his face and made him blink rapidly. Gravity, or magnetism, or some other force, and his hand tightened on Cas' back. He could feel the air humming all around him. He was leaning in. His vision was blurring.

Then Castiel went rigid. He looked around, sitting up straight, all his muscles tensing. It was as though someone had whistled in a tone only he could perceive. He whipped his head around, then put a palm to his forehead. His jaw was trembling.

"Cas. Cas!" Dean grabbed him by the shoulder. "What's going on, man?"

Castiel's head turned once, twice more, then found Dean's eyes. His skin had gone gray. He tried to speak, but only a chalky cough found its way from his lungs.

"Cas!" Dean shook him.

Whatever it was that had held him let go again, and Castiel went limp. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Sorry, don't be sorry, just tell me what the hell just happened!"

Dark eyes scrutinized his face. "You must not tell anyone," he said slowly.

"Yeah, sure, of course. Our secret." Dean's impatience spilled over. "Come on, what was it?"

Castiel looked around the room suspiciously. His hand reached for Dean's, his grip needy, begging for balance. Finally, secure in the connection, he leaned in. "I'm hearing something," he said, low and tremulous. "Something coming from inside me. A... a whisper. And I don't know what it is."

"A whisper?"

His eyes were wide and frightened. "It's almost as if there's a part of me that I don't know, but at the same time I feel it's been with me forever. And it has something to do with you."

Dean's heart thudded dully in his chest. "With me?"

"Yes." Castiel drew his hand away and looked at the carpet. "And that... rather uncomfortable question you asked me earlier."

Dean blanked. "Wait, what?"

"You asked me if I--" Castiel actually _blushed._ "If I was, if I felt love for you."

"Oh, God. If this whisper is your sex drive, I'm out of here." Dean rolled his eyes.

Castiel shook his head. "No. It's not that. But when I ponder that question, or when I look at you or think of you, I can hear it. Just now it was so loud, I... I thought for a moment I wasn't alone. I felt like something else was alive. Inside me."

Dean stood up instantly and backed away. "No. No more things inside people, Cas. We've got enough of that going on. Come on, spare me."

Castiel averted his eyes and shook his head. "Forgive me," he said. "It's not like that. I'm not being possessed. It's just.... it's nothing."

Regret pinched at Dean's heart. This was unusual. Castiel was revealing something personal to him, something uncomfortable. Maybe it was his sense of duty or his angelic temperament, but Castiel didn't tend to do things like that. It wasn't right of Dean to shut him out when he was taking such a chance.

"Look," he said, taking a measured step forward, "look. We're going to talk about this. You and me. Whatever it is that's going on here. I promise. But right now-- right now we're in the middle of a fight, and I can't--"

"I know." Castiel stood. His eyes didn't meet Dean's. "You have enough to think about. You'll be crossing the border tomorrow, and you'll need some sleep." He began to walk toward the door.

Dean watched him retreat. He was too deep in the thicket now to worry about the implications of this. He needed Cas too badly, and his people needed him too badly, to spend much time on it. But he couldn't leave it there, either. "We will talk about this, OK? We'll sit down, and we'll work it out. After.... after everything's over. We'll talk about it."

"But not right now. I know. I understand." Castiel moved toward the door. His expression betrayed no emotion.

For an instant Dean had a flash, an image of a possible future. Of what he could do, if he wanted to. If he had the time, and the courage.

Castiel heard it. He looked over his shoulder, his face flushed red. Their eyes held. There was a second of acute possibility.

"Good night, Dean," Castiel said in a half-whisper, and he left.

**

Bobby opened his eyes and immediately lunged forward at the thing in front of him. He very nearly landed a clawed hand in its eyes before realizing it was Sam.

"The hell?" he said, looking around. His useless legs lay limp on a flowered comforter; there were pillows piled behind his back. "Where am I?"

"In the house," Sam said. "One of Lucifer's goons got you."

"And you rescued me?" Bobby looked embarrassed. "Thanks, boy."

"Actually... no." Sam's brows knitted together. "Lucifer was pretty mad about it. He said he was going to have words with the demon who roughed you up."

Bobby's lips drew into a tight purse. "...Oh."

"I know." Neither had to say it: _weird._

Sam gazed at the bedroom door. "He said he'd be back in a few minutes. We should talk. What happened?"

"Don't know. One minute I was putting down roots, the next-- smack."

"How far did you get?"

"Pretty far." There was a note of pride in Bobby's voice. "I managed to do the house. I was on my way out to widen the net when they got me."

Sam relaxed. "That's good, then. The house is good. As long as we're inside."

"If any of this works at all." Bobby leaned forward and put a hand on Sam's arm. "Did you get any information?"

"Not what we need," Sam said. "I'm still working on that."

"Sam." Bobby was staring at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn. His eyes were wide, scrutinizing. "You know he's not going to let me out of here alive."

"What? That's ridiculous, Bobby. We'll get you--"

"This is the devil, remember?" His grip on Sam's arm tightened, the bear fingers digging deep. "Stay focused, boy. This is not about me, and it's not about you. There is a whole world out there. Worry about them first."

Sam looked at him with wounded eyes. He remembered the man he saw in the hospital room, empty and unmoving. When he'd said to Dean that Bobby might not just bounce back this time, it wasn't entirely his legs he'd been speaking of. The wound had shattered his spirit, too, and Sam had the sinking feeling then, as he did now, that Bobby was coming to grips with the fact that he wasn't living for his own sake anymore.

He'd seen it happen to friends. As their parents aged, they had to contend with not only the physical decline but psychological scarring, too. What was it like, he often wondered, to realize you weren't in control of your body anymore? To need help with things that you used to do without thinking?

He'd been there while Jess was dealing with it. Her grandmother had declined into a deep depression as her hip surgeries kept her off her feet for longer and longer periods of time. As hard as seeing her so frail was, it was even harder for Jess to deal with her grandmother's crying jags, her calling herself useless and old and one foot in the grave. There had been one night her grandmother begged for someone to let her die. Jess had stayed on the phone with her mother for hours after that, and Sam had held her through the whole thing. When she finally went, there was a smile on Jess' face even as her tears fell. "At least she's not suffering anymore," she'd said.

It was a trauma that a life as a hunter didn't afford. No hunter lived long enough to grow old and become a liability. Bobby certainly had never expected to. The weight on his shoulders had to be heavier than Sam could even imagine. It was one of the reasons he'd agreed to go along with this plan. Bobby needed now more than ever to be an active, vital part of the mission. Sam could only pray things had not taken a turn for the very worst.

"Bobby Singer. It's an honor."

Lucifer stood in the doorway. His lanky frame, still peeling skin, was silhouetted in the bright hallway light. "I have to say, this is a throwback to the olden days. The general of the opposing camp, coming to my tent for a drink on the eve of battle. Not that I was around for those days. Locked up, you know. May I shake your hand, sir?"

Bobby clammed up, his eyes bulging out in trepidation and terror. Sam stood. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Sam." Lucifer fixed him with a wounded look. "Surely you didn't think I was going to treat your companion with any less respect than he deserves! Mister Singer here has been killing my children since long before you were born." He gave a light chuckle. "He's a worthy adversary. A legend, as they say, in his own time."

Sam looked over at Bobby, who was still staring, his jaw clamped shut.

"It is, of course, too bad that his own time will have to be ending shortly, but that's a discussion for later. Why don't we sit down and have a chat?"

**to be continued**


	9. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Bobby make a deal with the devil. Dean comes to a crisis point.

Sam stalled him as long as he could think. By dawn he knew the names of every demon Lucifer could think to mention, had heard the story of the Fall in greater detail than he ever wanted, and had a vision -- in detail a horror-movie director could never imagine -- of just what Lucifer planned to do once he'd gotten into Sam's body. But when the sun rose, Lucifer stood up.

"I'm sorry to do this to you, Sam," he said with an apologetic shrug. "But I'm afraid your friend does have to die now. You've made sure he knows way too much."

"No," Sam said. "I still have questions."

"Oh, but I'm sleepy." Lucifer stifled an exhausted yawn. "I think it's time for beddy-bye. Your brother will be here shortly, and I want to make sure he gets the full welcome wagon."

"Dean." Sam's mouth fell around the name before he could stop himself.

"Tsk, tsk." Lucifer shook a finger at him. "I see your brain starting to flip into high gear. Dean won't be able to save you, Sir Robert." He looked down at Bobby disdainfully. "So I suppose now's the time when I ask you how you'd like to die. Of course, if you want to keep playing dumb, that's your own prerogative, but--"

"You still haven't answered my question," Sam broke in. "About Castiel."

"You're trying to distract me." Lucifer's tone was strangely sharp in the midst of all his melodrama. "Let's not play games, Sam. I have too much respect for you to do that. I'd appreciate the same courtesy."

"And I'd appreciate it if you'd fulfill your end of the bargain," Sam snapped. "I'm here, aren't I? I did what you asked. Now it's time you fulfilled your part of the bargain. Tell me about Castiel."

"I don't think I want to give away that information for free."

"Then take me for it."

The words came without a moment of hesitation, and they came in a strong voice. After a night of closed-mouth glaring, Bobby had leaped into full animation, grabbing the arm of the man Lucifer was wearing and tugging hard on it.

Sam turned toward the bed, eyes filled with horror. "Bobby, no."

Bobby ignored him, his eyes fixed on Lucifer's face. "Tell him what he wants to know, and you can do whatever you want with me. My body, my soul."

Lucifer looked down at him, momentarily halted. Bobby went on. "Come on, I've killed enough of your underlings that you've got a good slot for me on the rack down there. Don't insult my pride by saying no, you king-sized douchebag." He squeezed Lucifer's wrist with a bearlike fist, and Lucifer winced, annoyed.

"It's a tempting offer," he said. "Your soul for Castiel's big secret. I might be persuaded. There's just one problem. It's not your soul I'm after, it's his body. But I'll make you a counteroffer. No, two counteroffers."

"I'm listening," Bobby said, letting him go and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Your life for the information. Sam I trust, but you I don't. No offense, but you don't get to leave here with the big payoff. It just wouldn't be smart." He grinned. "And I'll put your soul in his hands."

"Wait," Sam said. "Wait a minute. You two, stop this."

Lucifer ignored him. "He says yes, you're spared the rack. He says no, you're damned. I'll give you two an hour to think it over while I take a quick nap. See you in sixty." And waving, he was through the door again, leaving Sam and Bobby alone.

Sam leapt to his feet. "Bobby, this is insane. Stop it."

"Oh, sit down and shut up, boy," Bobby said. "This is the best chance we've got." Ignoring him, Sam rushed from door to window, trying unsuccessfully to unlock or push or smash something. Bobby watched him, frowning. "What the hell are you gonna do? Carry me out?"

"If I have to."

"Well, it ain't gonna work, princess. Why are you so damn determined to make me feel useless? How do you think I felt out there, stuck in that chair, watching you two with all these angels fawning all over you? Least I could do is give you an opening."

Sam sank onto the bed and buried his head in his hands. "I should have just trusted Dean," he said. "I shouldn't have worried about him. Whatever Cas' secret is, it can't be worth your life."

"No," Bobby said, steel in his voice. "It's something big. I can feel it in my bones. He wouldn't go to these lengths if it wasn't huge. And dangerous to him. We can't pass up this chance. You know that." He leaned forward and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "This is the end of the world we're talking about. If that's not worth my life, then my life has meant nothing."

"Don't say that." Sam couldn't even look at him.  His eyes were starting to tear up.

"You know," Bobby said quietly, "I always thought the whole end-of-the-world thing was full of it. I mean, everyone's running around like chickens with their heads cut off about the apocalypse, but don't those old prayers always finish up with 'World Without End, Amen'? Doesn't seem to me God would much want to see the world end. Always thought it was a mistake."

"Maybe Zachariah was right," Sam said. "Maybe God has left the building after all."

Bobby shook his head. "Don't you start believing that," he said. "You were always the one who believed, Sam. In God, in people being good. In your brother. Don't stop believing now."

His eyes red with suppressed tears, Sam looked up at him. The resolve in Bobby's face was implacable. He nodded.

"Never forget who you are, boy." Bobby's features crinkled into a smile. "Who you really are, and that's got nothing to do with any apocalyptic prophecy or what some yellow-eyed sumbitch did to you. It's you, your heart," he said. "That's who you are. You're a human being. That means you choose your own destiny, and that's something no angel can ever do."

The tears flowed now, but a flash of steel and purpose had passed between them, and Sam's vision was as clear as it had ever been. He knew what he had to do now. Bobby had given him the answer, as clear as if he'd been whispered to by God himself.

"We should finish it," he said quietly.

Bobby nodded. He put his hand on Sam's head. "That new haircut doesn't look half bad," he said jokingly. "Who was your hairdresser?"

Sam laughed. "Oh, some guy," he said. His eyes softened. "Some guy I'll never forget."

"That does my heart good." Bobby patted his head briefly. "Now let's see if I can't get all these words right." He pulled a sheaf of paper from his jacket pocket, looked at it briefly, and began to chant.

**

The ground started to shake when they were five miles outside Lawrence city limits. The sky darkened in four. When they hit the exit, it became clear that the darkness wasn't all stormclouds.

Lawrence was lit up like some sort of macabre, twisted Christmas tree. Lightning flashed through the sky. Swarms of insects and birds pelted the caravan in mad kamikaze storms. A farmhouse was on fire. Dark smoke poured out of a grain silo. Everything evil that had ever walked the earth was there-- and was celebrating.

Dean burst from his car. He was all muscle and bravado, pushing forward against a wind that gusted against him with all the force of a steamroller there to plant him flat on the pavement and push him through the concrete into the earth. Beneath him, the tar burned hot. The soles of Dean's boots began to melt. He didn't notice.

He didn't, notice, either, how behind him, the remaining hunters had coalesced into a tight circle, how they were fighting off every creature and every danger that came near, how the howling and gnashing teeth of creatures beyond human imagination were turned back at every pass by the iron rods and silver bullets and salt and sheer willpower of seven dozen hunters who had seen plenty in their time and would not brook leaving Dean to his own devices.

Then a crack of thunder sounded directly above them, and Dean looked up in enough time to see the body of Bobby Singer fall from the sky.

He hit the concrete with the sickening sound of snapping bones and tearing flesh. His face was serene, his body showed no signs of a struggle. No wounds, but no life. Dean tore forward, laid his hand on Bobby's chest as though to try to pound his heart back into motion, but the corpse was already cold. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled backward, trembling. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "Oh, my God, Bobby. No."

The crowd broke ahead of him, and suddenly Dean was left in their wake, standing uselessly on the road as he watched them mourn the man who'd really put this army together, the man to whom he owed everything, He buried his head his hands. At once he was blind, mute, incoherent and broken.

He couldn't save Bobby. He couldn't protect the one man who'd given everything to protect him. When he was stupid, when he was blind, when he let rage and terror build up inside him until he couldn't think, Bobby had always been there to slap some sense into him. And now Bobby was gone. It was like the root had been yanked out of Dean's world.

And he saw, finally, how foolish he was to stand at the head of this army.

He turned around. He couldn't look them in the face. It was too much to bear, to look at every last one of them, Bobby's friends all, grieving, and have no words of comfort with him. Where was his bravado now? Where was his leadership? He was a stupid kid who thought he could handle taking down the devil, and it never occurred to him that he might lose those people he leaned on most. This whole thing was a mistake. And he was reminded of that first night after Ellen and Jo had gone, standing out in the oak grove with Castiel, and saying, "There has to be a better way."  Standing before him and swearing that he was not going to let one more innocent person die because he thought he could handle himself. They'd lost thirty men since this journey had started. Three blocks from the farmhouse and Dean was ready to march right back out of town.

He'd do it alone. He'd see these people to safety and he'd get back here and if he had to say yes to Michael so be it because he could not do this, he wasn't strong enough, he sure as hell wasn't smart enough, and he just plain wasn't good enough. Who the hell was he, anyway? He was beer-drinking girl-chasing belching brawling Dean Winchester, who had never been much more than a punk kid and who at his worst had tortured souls for ten years running. Why did he think he could save the world, anyway?

Then he had a bearded face in his. It was Bobby's old friend, Travis, and he looked like hell -- his nose running, his whole face wet and the white tufts of hair matted down with tears.  He grabbed Dean by the shoulders with tattoo-patterned hands, turned him right around and marched him forward.

"You are going to finish this," he said, quietly.

Dean resisted. "Stupid old man," he said, "what the hell do you think you're doing? Leave me alone!"

"Get him," shouted another hunter. "Give him one for us, Dean."

"What?"

Another shout. Another pat on the back. Dean was being pushed through the crowd, touched by ten, twenty, thirty hands. Words whispered past his ears that he didn't recognize. _Good luck_ and _you can do it_ and _kick his ass_ and _do it for Bobby_ and finally it was just too much and Dean turned and screamed, "Shut up!"

The hunters did.

"Look at him!" Dean yelled, flinging a hand toward Bobby's body. "I let that happen! I let him die!"

His voice echoed weirdly through the open streets. The thunder above had quieted down.

"I've done nothing but lie to you people," he said, his voice breaking with honest agony. "Those seals I gave you did nothing. I don't have a damn clue what I'm going to do when I get in there. I don't know how to kill Lucifer. I don't know anything. This is all my fault."

The truth of it was stunning enough that the group stayed quiet for another minute.

The silence felt like a condemnation, stinging confirmation of his own self-doubt. It broke the anger and outrage own into despair, and Dean put a hand over his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the stale air. "I'm sorry."  He fell to his knees.

"Oh, get the hell up."

The voice was Travis', but it sounded so much like Bobby that Dean had to snap up his head in shock.

The bearded old hunter was standing over him, hands on his hips. The dark ink of his tattoos gleamed as though alive. "You going to tell me that what you did to those demons was another lie?" Travis said. "We saw you. We saw the power come from you."

"You don't understand," Dean protested. "That only worked because you all believed in me. You all thought I was some sort of great leader, but..."

"We still believe in you," said a woman from the crowd.

"You're still our leader," said another one.

"Are you all stupid?" Dean didn't mean it to come out so biting, but he knew no other way to say it. "You could all die. You should get out of here while you still can."

"So we'll die," Travis said. "We're hunters. We always knew that was coming. Come on, boy. If it's believing that matters, why don't you try believing in us? We've got your back."

He held out a hand to Dean. The tattoo on his palm read _Bobby's Left-Hand Man._

Dean thought he might know who the right-hand man had been.

He took Travis' hand and got to his feet. Standing there, suddenly utterly human in all his honesty and despair, he felt like he was looking at these people with his real face for the first time. And their gazes didn't falter. A candle of hope lit in his heart.

"Thank you," he said, to Travis. And then to the group. "Thank you."

With one final nod, he ran ahead toward his destination.

**

As Dean approached, the first thing he saw was that the house was new and unfamiliar. The next was that an unearthly glow was pouring from it, turning it into an illuminated gem, all sharp angles and gleaming surfaces. As though the house were itself a burning ember, it blazed sharp and bright. The ground was still shaking beneath him. The air was cut by gusts of wind and pockets of heat and cold that stung and seared him as he moved.

The next thing he saw was Castiel. His face was grave. His arms were spread wide as a barrier.

"Don't," he said.

Dean came to a skidding halt. "Cas, what the hell..."

Castiel shook his head, and his hands came down to grab Dean by the forearms. His eyes were wild, frightened, and his hold on Dean's arms shook.

"It's too late," he said. "It's too late."

Dean didn't have time for this. "What? What the hell do you mean it's too late? Let me go!"

Castiel's grip tightened. "He did it, Dean," he said. "Sam said yes."


	10. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel lets his feelings show. Sam welcomes Lucifer to his new apartment. Nothing is what it seems.

At last.

At last this vessel full of power and primed from birth with hatred and resentment of the world he'd been so horribly forced to deal with.The life he'd run from, unsuccessfully, the destiny he couldn't escape being the very thing that ensured he'd be ready to accept that destiny when this glorious time came. Sam, a being within a cage, the only power to break out coming in his acceptance of Lucifer into his heart and soul and mind.

It was all his now.

So why in the hell was he so disoriented?

He combed through Sam's memories as though they were trunks of treasure stuck up in an attic. On one he saw a picture of Sam's mother, framed in fire. The mother he had never gotten to know, who had been taken from him in an injustice that could never be corrected. But when he opened it up he saw the dream-figure of her ghost, he saw the unexpected knowledge that she had been a hunter, and these were not memories that dripped of bitterness. They were golden, framed in love and appreciation, and he couldn't touch them.

A trunk, then, with Jessica's name and picture on it. Full of a life that could have been. A career, a family, that he would never have. His whole life had to ache with the absence of her, surely. Then why, when he lifted the lid, did he see the knowledge he'd gained in those scant few years at college, still shining and useful to this day? Why did the things Jessica had said to him, those pearls of wisdom that got him through his darkest times, still shine with the luster of yesterday's memories? They were too bright. He had to lock them away again.

All right, then. All right, so the life that he'd been denied and the women Azazel had taken from him were perhaps not the treasure trove of rage and bitter power that Lucifer had imagined. It was a shame Azazel was not still alive so Lucifer could kill him for his lackluster performance. But that was neither here nor there.

The biggest and most ponderous trunks of memory were still unopened. Those were the ones that bore the pictures of his father, of his job... and in the middle, the portrait of his brother. There would be enough rage and bitterness here for Lucifer to thrive on. Surely.

**

"He's said yes." Castiel repeated. "Sam has let Lucifer in."

"You're crazy." Dean shook his head. "Sam wouldn't." But this was Castiel, and Cas wouldn't lie to him, and... "Why?"

"I don't know."

Dean lunged past him and sprinted forward. Castiel turned quickly and grabbed him by the arm. "What will you do?"

Dean's feet itched. He struggled in Castiel's grasp, but the angel's hands held a strength that came from somewhere other than the physical. "Let go!"

"What will you do?"

"What I have to." Dean wriggled. "Whatever the hell I have to, Cas, let go."

"Will you say yes to Michael?"

Castiel looked petrified. The color had drained from his face. Dean recognized his fear and relented for just a moment, long enough to face him. "I don't know," he said.

"Don't." It was a whisper laced with dread. "Don't, Dean."

Emotion. It was sheer emotion in Castiel's eyes, in the trembling of his features. When had he ever looked like this before? Dean's heart was breaking a little looking at him.

Impulsively, he grabbed Castiel and pulled him into a rough embrace. Warmth seeped into him. "I'm sorry, Cas," he murmured into the angel's shoulder. "I wish I could promise you. But it's Sam... I have to do what I have to do, you know?"

In response, Castiel's arms went around him. Dean gasped. The embrace felt like power, intense power and intense emotion, enough to knock his breath away. Castiel's hands were hot on his back, and his mouth was close, whispering into Dean's ear, a voice that Dean had never heard waver, and now it was trembling with emotion. "I have no idea where my Father is," Castiel whispered. "All I have left is you."

Thrown, his heart aching, Dean pulled back. He tucked a hand under Castiel's chin. Hey," he said gruffly, "hey. Believe in me. That's supposed to change everything, right?"  
   
Castiel's eyes brimmed with tears. Dean's feet itched to go rescue Sam, but his eyes were held in thrall by the visage of a weeping angel. He sighed and leaned his forehead in to knock gently against Castiel's. Then, on impulse, he pulled upward to place his mouth firmly on the track of one cascading tear.

The contact broke down Castiel's resolve. His hands dropped. "I don't want to lose you, Dean," he said.

The words stung Dean's heart, and he felt his own eyes begin to itch with fast-forming tears. "Then believe," he repeated.

Castiel nodded. "I'll try," he said.

Dean found Cas' hands, squeezed them briefly, and ran for the house.

**

"Enjoying the tour?"

Up there in the attic, somewhere in mindspace, Lucifer saw the lanky body of Sam blocking the doorway. He was smiling, cocky, sure. Lucifer looked down at himself. He was still wearing the rotting body.

"It's my head," Sam said. "That's what you look like to me."

Lucifer's hand shot out. Sam's body slammed against the wall.

"You sure-- _nngh_\-- you want to do that?" Sam managed to gasp out against the invisible bonds that held him up, suspended and barely able to breathe. "We're still inside my head. You might hurt yourself."

Lucifer frowned and let him go, letting him crumple onto the floor. He walked up and kicked Sam's shin, hard, drawing a shout from him. "You should be gone," he said. "This is my body now."

"But you need me." Sam staggered to one knee, still clutching his leg. "If it were just the body you needed, anyone would have done. But you need me around, don't you? Not just my powers, but my memories, my life. So here they are. Every last one of them. Take a look. They're all yours for the taking."

"I think," Lucifer said after a moment of silent staring, "that you think you have some secret trick in the back of your mind. Some hidden weapon. I like that about you, you're ambitious. You quite literally think you can beat the devil."

"Thought you didn't like that nickname," Sam said, grunting as he got to his feet.

"Semantics." Lucifer shrugged. "But angel or devil, there is one thing I'm not, and that is a stupid, brainless, shortsighted, overconfident human." A slow smile crept over his face. "So let's see your secret weapon, Sam Winchester. I can hardly wait to put you back in your place, and then-- oh, the places we will go."

"Sounds fair," Sam said. "Here it is."

And the remaining trunks of memory flew open.

**

Dean looked around to see Castiel standing there looking after him. He and Cas were definitely going to have to have that talk when this was done. And Dean wasn't entirely sure he was going to say the things he'd thought he would. Cas gave him something, and he wanted to give it back. Soon.

What he felt for Cas probably was love, in some sort of general sense of the world. The kind of love that Cas had said was universal, was part of God. He felt that way about a lot of people. Dad, and Sam, and Bobby, and Ellen and Jo... It hit him, then, how many people on that list were dead, and it seemed like he had to love someone else, just to keep himself from going empty inside. Well, why shouldn't he love Cas? Cas had given things up for him that Dean himself couldn't imagine. Now, whether that extended to the stickier bits of family-love or romantic-love or friendship-love was another question for another time. Just now, it was enough to know it was there, and it gave him strength.

*

_Dean returns to your life. Breaks up your long-won freedom and immediately coerces you back onto the road, where you're forced to deal with him and all his foibles. The unfairness. The frustration._

The feeling of belonging to my family again. The memories. The knowledge that someone else knows exactly what it's really like out there, that I have someone to talk to and I'll never have to pretend I'm anything but who and what I am.

*

Beyond him, the hunters, now swarmed by bees, were shouting to each other and firing their guns, fighting the swarm off admirably. Dean felt bad for them. It was way easier to fight big things than small. Still, they were holding their own, and Dean had a sudden twinge in his gut. These people had chosen to believe in him, and not the kind of tacky, false faith that got a little bit soiled and it was all gone. Their faith wasn't weak enough to be swayed by cardboard symbols or simple lies. It was a force unto itself, and he held on to it.

He was heading into this house on his own, but he wasn't alone and had never been.

*

 

_It's Dean Dad gave his life for. What makes him worthy? How can you look at Dean and not see Dad's face twisted in agony for every day he's in Hell?_

I look at Dean and I see Dad's legacy. He gave his life, his soul, to keep Dean alive, and Dean honors his memory every single hunt, every single day. I'm lucky to get to stay that close to Dad's memory.

*

He never did get a chance to tell Bobby the truth about the charms. Would Bobby have whupped his ass? Probably, and then reluctantly agreed that it had to be done. Bobby was pragmatic like that, but he hated the fact that he had to be pragmatic. He wanted to believe in a better world. The least Dean could do to honor his memory was do his part to make it so. He swung open the front door and walked inside.

The front room was empty. The silence soaked through Dean's skin like rain. It was wrong, it was cold and unnatural. There shouldn't be a silence this complete, not when hell was waiting somewhere within. Dean looked at his palms. He had the power to do this. He would not need any archangel's help. But first he had to find Sam.

*

 

_He lets you know he's sold his soul for you. Every day you're shouldered with the double burden of knowing you should be dead and he should be alive, and knowing it's all on you to save him because he refuses to lift a finger to save himself._

It's a burden, but it's also nice knowing that maybe, for once in my life, I can be the one to save him. And I don't give up, not until it's over. If I'm alive, I'm going to use my life to save him. And when he's gone, to save as many people as I can.  
   
_*_

He thought he heard a noise upstairs. Upstairs, it had to be. He raced up, his heart pounding. His whole life had come down to this moment. This door. This door that wouldn't open. Damn it.

"Sammy!" He pounded on the door. Maybe Sam would hear him. Maybe he wasn't all gone yet. Maybe there was a part of him that was trying to help. Dean clung to that belief with every last shred of faith he had. And clinging to it, he slammed his body against the door until the frame finally cracked beneath him.

*

 

_Now he's keeping secrets, and acting like the Boy Emperor of Hunterville, no less. He's the one who drove you away, who drove you here. He will learn that he doesn't get to be the king of the world. _

That's not why I came. It's possible to feel two things at once, you know. You can be upset at somebody, think they're acting like a dick, and at the same time love them and want them to succeed.

See, this is the thing you get the least about humans. We can be petty and annoyed with people and complain about them all day long and we can still forgive them, still love them. Did you really think that you were getting to me? Did you think I was going to just blow up at Dean and come crying into your corner? You underestimated me, Lucifer. You underestimated all humans. Bobby and I knew what we were doing all this time.

_And what were you doing, Sam? What are you doing now?_

Keeping you busy, mostly. See, you didn't even notice, but Dean's here already. Look up and say hello.

**

He'd landed in a shower of splinters. His fingers stung from the impact and from the slivers of wood that slipped into his skin on contact. It'd hurt like hell to get them all out-- if he got out of this alive at all. Because now he was looking up at the crumpled figure of someone who might or might not be Sam.

"Sam," he said, urgently, trying to press across the floor on splinter-filled hands and drawing back in pain. He rose to his knees and crawled a few awkward steps forward. "Sam, is that you in there?"

Even if he said _yes,_ Dean knew, it might not be the truth.

Slowly, like a snake uncurling, Sam raised his head, and a smile spread over his face. "Dean." Neither menacing nor heartfelt. Just a name. Just a recognition.

"Sam, tell me that's you," Dean said. "Tell me I'm not too late."

Sam didn't reply. Something seemed to be struggling beneath the surface, a mixture of emotions. Dean struggled another half a crawling step toward him. "It's you, isn't it? Come on, Sam."

And Sam's arms snapped up, grabbed Dean by the shoulders and threw him across the room.

"Sorry to disappoint." Lucifer got to his feet and stretched out. "Oh, this is so much better," he said, his voice dripping with ice and sickly sweet honey. "I was so sick of that other model. You have no idea." He lifted his arms over his head, took a big breath of air, and smiled like a sleepy lion, all teeth and shaggy mane. "I have to tell you, it's sort of like upgrading from a Motel Six to the Ritz-Carlton. And the _amenities!_"

With that, his fist went out again, and Dean was raised up from a heap and slammed against the wall.

"Sam didn't know what to do with his power," Lucifer said, the corners of his mouth turning down into a pensive frown. "He thought a little blood could enhance it, but the truth was, it was inside him this whole time. Waiting for someone who could really use it. Waiting for me."

Dean put out a hand and power flowed through it, a blinding shaft of white light that made Lucifer roar and pull back like a wounded tiger, clutching his gut. It took only a second for the roar to turn to laughter. "You have faith. That's impressive. It's a strong weapon, against the right kind of demon. Unfortunately, I'm not a demon."

His feet back on the floor, Dean stepped forward, but his brow flickered with doubt. Lucifer saw it and grinned. "You see, Dean, I have faith, too. My punishment was born of faith. So if you think you can use your white-hot self-righteousness to send me back to the pit, I'm afraid you'll find you're shooting blanks."

Dean glared at him. He raised another hand, but the light that poured from it was weak.

"And now he's losing faith in himself." Lucifer clucked his tongue.  "That's the downside of it. The minute it doesn't work the way you want it to, it becomes completely ineffectual. Doubt's a bitch, isn't it?"

The lights were starting to flicker. Somewhere downstairs, a TV switched on and roared a steady haze of static in the background. Dean could feel his back prickling with gooseflesh, and a phantom wind seemed to be blowing at his neck, cooling him. His skin tingled.

Lucifer looked up and around. "Michael's in the building," he said. "Are you going to say yes, Dean? I thought you were determined not to do that. Although I really couldn't blame you at this point."

"Yeah, think I'll pass," Dean spat.

"Then what exactly was your big plan?" Lucifer's head cocked in a distinctly Samlike nod. Dean's stomach turned. It was even harder to look at his brother's body when it was acting so like his brother-- and so wasn't him. Grief churned in him, and he lunged at Lucifer, landing a solid punch in his gut. Lucifer just laughed. "You didn't have one, did you? You thought you could come in here with your magic holy light of faith and take me out. And if that didn't work-- you had no plan B."

He reached out then and grabbed Dean by the neck, dangling him like a rag doll. His hand slid up to close around Dean's windpipe, slowly, steadily choking the air out of him. "Sam would be so disappointed in you, Dean. Then again, maybe he was used to it. After all, going off all half-cocked is what you excel at, isn't it? Frankly, I think he was trying to emulate you. I think that's what made him rush on down here to meet me. Think about that a second. Trying to act like you is what got Sam killed." His eyes narrowed. "You should take it as a compliment. The very last compliment you'll ever get."

Dean struggled, but his vision was starting to blur around the edges. He couldn't speak, could only glare at the face that wasn't Sam's. He could call for Michael now, he thought desperately. He could ask him to come in, take his body, do whatever he wanted, just kill this son of a bitch who'd taken his brother, destroyed him. But pride still resonated in his empty chest, as strong a sting as the lack of air, and he just couldn't. Sam's hands were cold metal around his neck. His lungs were bursting, and his limbs jumped uselessly against the wall, too far away, too little power, too close to death--

\--and then, it stopped.

Stopped, and Dean slumped to the floor, gasping, his hand clutched protectively around his windpipe.

Lucifer was staring at his hand. Stunned. "That's odd," he said quietly. "That should have killed--"

And then his features shifted. And Sam was there.

His face, his presence shone clear and sun-bright through the face that had been Lucifer's. And his voice was clear, too. "You can't," he said. "Not in this body. You will never be able to kill him as long as I'm around. And like it or not, I'm going to be around for a very long time."  
    
**to be continued**


	11. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby and Sam's plan, from day one, was to get to this moment. And only Dean has the strength to get them beyond it.

A long moment of silent gaping passed before Dean found his words. "Sam. Sam, that's you in there. How in the hell did you do that?"

"It's a long story." Sam's presence felt illusory, like it might slip away at any moment. His features convulsed in regular tics, little pieces of Lucifer trying to slip through the momentary hold Sam had on his body. "Dean, listen. I have to tell you something."

But Dean's mind was already reeling. Rage coiled up inside him, and he shoved Sam backward. "How could you have left me behind like that? Do you have any idea how badly that hurt? How..." His voice weakened. "How scared I was?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dean, but we had to. Bobby and I, we had a plan. We had a spell to cast. But listen."

"A spell? You couldn't have told me about that?" Incensed, Dean decked him. Sam went careening back through the air, crumpling on the ground and grabbing his face where the punch had made impact. "What the hell were you two up to? What did you think I'd do, just say, oh, OK, I guess that makes me king of the mountain? And the next thing I know Bobby is dead--" He nearly choked on the word. "--and you've let Lucifer in? What the _hell_, Sammy?"

Sam had grabbed the bedpost and was struggling to his feet. "Don't you get it?" he whispered. "We believed in you. We knew you could lead them. But you weren't going to take responsibility until we made you. It was our only choice."

Dean seethed. "That's not fair. You don't get to decide that for me. That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair, Dean." The same words he'd said a million times, in the same dark tone, but something about them commanded respect this time. Dean softened, looked at him critically but was silent. "It wasn't fair that Bobby had to die. It's not fair that you and I are being used in some angel fight. What matters isn't what's fair. It's what works. And this worked. Look. Lucifer's in here, but I'm in control."

"Why'd you let him in, Sammy?" Dean's face was close to crumpling. "Why?"

"Because I was supposed to," Sam said. "And because now I know why."

Dean just shook his head. It didn't make any sense. None of it did.

Sam's tone was urgent. "Dean, listen. Bobby traded his life for information. Something that can end this whole thing. It has to do with--"

And he seized up as though he were choking on his own voice. His face strained, his hands rounded into claws, and his whole body vibrated as though someone had plucked a string within him. The air was full of some undefinable sound, a hissing and a stirring of wind and dark things. Dean shouted his name, but could barely hear himself.

When it all stopped, all at once, the face wasn't Sam's any longer.

"None of that," Lucifer said with a dour grimace.

**  
_  
Two weeks ago_

When the last corner of the photograph had gone brown, then amber, then black, Bobby harrumphed and looked up at Sam. "That's done, then," he said.

"Bobby." Sam put a hand on his shoulder. He could see the trembling in the man's jaw.

But Bobby waved him away. "Your brother's flown the coop," he said, looking around briefly.

Sam shrugged. "You know Dean," he said, but it felt like a lame excuse.

"His timing's perfect."

Sam started. "'What?"

Bobby locked eyes with him. "I want to show you something."

And all business again, Bobby wheeled over to his desk and pulled a sheaf of papers out of a bottom drawer.  The papers were full of his dark, blocky scrawl, practically soaking with ink. When Sam squinted in the dim firelight, he could make out pieces of a dozen arcane languages and the names of at least three pagan gods and mythological creatures. "What is that, a spell?" he said, leaning forward.

"Or something approaching one. I haven't been sitting around watching my soap operas while you boys were out there fighting."

Sam put up his arms as though surrendering. "I never said you were."

"No, of course not." Bobby hunched over, his round cheeks pinking. "Anyway, with all this talk of vessels, I went back and tried to figure out if there's a way to keep Lucifer or Michael or whoever from getting their hands on you two."

Sam thought back to what Jimmy Novak had said, what he'd done for the sake of his family and the world. "There isn't," he said, "is there? It's not like a demonic possession, where you can get the demon out and bring the human back."

"No, there's not," Bobby said. "There's nothing in any of the mystical lore about preserving a human soul when an angel comes a'knocking. That's one of the reasons they have to ask first, because they do knock your soul out of commission, and they can't do that without your say-so. But then I started looking at other ways to make a soul stick around after the body's no good."

His meaning struck Sam sideways, and he flinched. "Wait. You mean... haunting?"

"More or less, yeah." Bobby shifted the papers and pulled out one that was fashioned like a crude diagram. In the center, a human body - on one side, a grave; on the other, diamonds each labeled with the word "Soul." "I've done a bit of reverse engineering, I guess you could call it, on some of the things we know about souls that get stuck on earth. We know as long as the body or DNA of a dead person isn't burned, they can appear in that general area. So if Lucifer kicks you to the curb but your body's still around, and if I can get the kinks in this spell worked out --"

"I could still haunt him." Sam's eyes widened. "Even possess him. While I'm still alive."

The concept was deceptively simple. Angels and demons wrestled for control of human souls, but it was technically possible for those souls to eschew both those choices and end up stuck on earth, attached to a piece of their physical self, as a spirit or ghost. They were quite literally lost souls, and both Heaven and Hell had lost their hold on them. So if they could figure out a way to get similarly lost, they'd have all the freedom to take control of living bodies, including their own -- in a way neither angels nor demons had any power over.

But the spell was more complex. It would require Sam's body as a central focus point, but he also had to split his DNA up into enough discrete pieces that his soul would have plenty of anchors to hold on to if Lucifer managed to expel it from his body as a whole. Sam's soul could bounce back from any one of those, latch on to Lucifer's body again, and take control. It would probably be disorienting as hell, but if Sam focused, he could be more annoying than a recurring infection.

But first that required his DNA to be scattered. So the plan was this: Bobby would take several dozen locks of Sam's hair and plant them in a ring around Lucifer's lair, a process he called "putting down roots." As long as Lucifer was within that ring, Sam would be able to possess his body. There was an incantation, too, a binding spell that would keep Sam's soul tied to his body for a short period of time. There was no guarantee the whole thing would work, but it was a chance Sam felt he had to take.

He didn't fear it. He'd gone into the astral plane before, and he'd been possessed. But Dean was different. He had a different perspective, different experiences and a different attitude about his body and his soul. So, as he helped Bobby gather up the components of the spell, Sam began to think long and hard about whether to let Dean know they'd decided on this. He didn't like keeping secrets from his brother, but Dean's plate was full right now. Besides, Sam was starting to suspect Dean was keeping his own secrets.

When Lucifer said he was in Lawrence, Sam knew, in an instant, that this was the time. Ghosts were stronger in places that meant something to them, in places where their memories were strong. If they could cast the spell in Lawrence, and if Bobby could make sure Sam's DNA was everywhere, he would be stronger than anywhere else. It was just a matter of getting there, and that meant keeping Dean occupied. And as annoying as it was to leave Dean to be a hunters' rock star, it was the best possible opportunity.

**

_Now  
_   
"Sam." It felt like shards of glass were embedded in Dean's throat. "Sam, fight him."

"No, Sam, don't fight him," Lucifer snapped, back in control. "Well, that's a clever little thing you and your late friend pulled off. What is that? A crude pagan haunting? Nice try." But then his face twitched, and when he pulled himself together, he looked significantly less calm. "That's it. Enough with the party games. You're dead."

He lashed out at Dean, but his fist stopped short of cracking his skull. He yelled with outrage, then cupped his hand. A bolt of pure flame appeared and grew there, and he lobbed it at Dean, but it fizzled into nothing before it could scorch his skin. Attack after attack, fire and electricity and sheer muscle, thrown at Dean, and each one died out just in time to leave him pristine and untouched.

Bewildered, Lucifer clutched his head. "What did you do? What have you done?"

Dean stood back. He wasn't sure of the specifics, but one thing was clear: Sam was still alive and kicking in there. God bless him, he'd actually pulled one over on the devil. Impressive. A small grin played over his lips. "And what was _your_ plan B, douchebag?" he said. "If you couldn't kick Sam out of the apartment. No backup if he ended up too strong for you?"

"Sam is gone. He's dead," Lucifer said with a growl.

"Doesn't look like it from here, pal."

Lucifer snarled. "I stepped on his soul and crushed his will with my bare hands," he said in a low voice. "There is nothing remaining here but a shell for me to command."

"Really?" Dean grinned fully now. "Because someone's sabotaging your mojo, and I don't think it's the Tooth Fairy, so to speak."

Lucifer lobbed another ball of fire, but his body seized up despite him, and he missed wildly. Dean sidestepped the bolt, letting out a laugh as flame scorched the wall and died out. "You can't control him, can you? You can't get your greedy little paws around him. He's in there, and he's keeping you from offing me, and there's not a thing you can do about it." His fists were starting to itch again. He could feel belief, and hope, racing through his blood. They were going to win. They were going to beat him. Or at least they had a chance.

Then Lucifer smiled through his rage. "Still," he said, "looks like he can't stop me from _hurting _you."

He struck Dean, hard, knocking him to the floor. Dean grunted in pain, wavered a moment on all fours, then tried to climb to his feet. He didn't make it. A kick, sharp and heavy, doubled him over and sent him back down.

"Yes," Lucifer said, "maybe I'll just leave you for dead, then. That's close enough." He twisted his fist in midair, and Dean's body rolled on the floor, thumping down face up. A heavy foot landed on his thigh, and Lucifer stood down looking at him. He slashed his hand through the air and pain flashed through Dean's vision as a huge, bloody gash opened across his chest. He cried out in agony.

"See?" Lucifer said. "I can work with limitations. I'll just let you bleed out onto the floor. Works for me."

"Boy," Dean said, grunting as he threw an arm across the gash and struggled to sit up. "You really showed me. I guess you really are in perfect control of that body."

Puzzled eyes darted to his. "What are you up to?"

"Me?" Through the haze of pain, Dean forced a smile. "Nothing. I'm just saying, you seem to be able to do whatever you want." He found his way onto his knees and squinted up at him. "Which makes me wonder: Why are you crying?"

Lucifer's hand flew to his eyes. "What--"

He drew back his fingers and looked at them.

Wet.

His jaw dropped. "What the--"

And then, as though he'd been shot, Lucifer doubled over, his hands over his chest, and wailed, an agonized scream. Sobs shook his body and he fell to the ground, his breath ragged, his shoulders shaking and his face contorted with agony. "What-- what-- what is this?" he demanded of no one. "This -- what are you doing to me?"

His head went down, knocking against the floor, and Dean braced his hand against his own wound and reached the other out across the floor toward him. "It's sorrow," he said quietly. "That's how much it hurts Sam to see me in pain."

Lucifer's head angled up. The venom in his eyes was only matched by the tortured sorrow of his expression. It nearly broke Dean altogether to see his brother's face like that. He withdrew his hand, afraid Lucifer might bite it off, and watched Sam's body convulse.

"Castiel didn't just teach me about how to fight angels," he said with a note of pity in his voice. "He also told me what it was like for an angel to possess a human. You _feel_ when you're in one of these meat suits. Things like remorse. Things like compassion. He learned all that the hard way. Now it looks like you are, too."

"That's impossible," Lucifer whispered. "It's impossible." He scurried backward, shaking his head the whole time.

"Nothing's impossible," Dean said. "That's the one part you angels never got. You go on and on about destiny, how it has to be us, and you never stopped to think about why. Why couldn't you take this whole battle to the astral plane? Why did it have to be here?

"See, now I know why Sam said yes. Because you have to take human form, or you'll never learn anything. You'll never realize what we have that you could never have in a million years. How we work. You couldn't figure it out in that broken-down old model you were wearing. But Sam-- Sam's full of heart. And hope, and imagination. Until you were inside him, you'd never understand..."

The end of the sentence -- _what it means to love someone_ \-- went unsaid. Partly because it was too cheesy for words, but partly because it made Dean's thoughts flicker back to Castiel a minute. Again, he felt the stirring of emotion that was too intense to bear, and he closed his eyes to fight it down.

His eyes went back to Lucifer. Words formed on the devil's lips and hissed out like darts. "I hate you." A blistering scowl thrown across the room. "I hate you and your whole stupid species."

"Yeah, I used to hate you guys, too," Dean said. "But then I got to know Cas and you know what? He's a good guy. Truth is, he's... he's actually pretty special to me." He blushed briefly, then cleared his throat. "But never mind that. The point is, there's another way around this. It doesn't have to be a fight to the death. There's always another way."

Lucifer had fallen silent. His face red-streaked and his hand still clutched to his chest. His eyes blazed with the flame of a thousand millennia of captivity, with the fury that had built up in his fallen soul for eternities. When he spoke, at last, his voice was pure fire. "There is no other way," he said.

"Then I don't want to talk to you anymore," Dean muttered, and he reached out his hand.

The light poured out, illuminating them both with white radiance. Sam's skin was pale beneath it. His eyes popped wide open, and after a moment of wild darting about, locked onto Dean's. And his hand rose, wavered in the air, and clutched at Dean's palm. Together, their hands dampened the brilliance into a gentle glow.

"Dean," he said urgently, "Dean, it's me, it's me. Don't let go."

Dean's grin was sheer relief. He squeezed his brother's palm. "You pulled some weird mojo there, Sammy. Nice work."

"It was Bobby," Sam said. "He did it all. He figured out how to keep me around. He..." his eyes welled up with a fresh flood of tears.

"I know." Dean's own eyes were wet. "I know."

"He died a hero, Dean," Sam whispered. "You should have seen him."

"What do we do now?" Dean looked at their joined hands. The light was starting to sputter, starting to short out.

Sam leaned into the press of his palm, but he was starting to look pained. "My spirit is tied to this place," he whispered. "I can't leave here, or he'll take control again. Dean, you have to get Cas. I need to see Cas."

Dean's stomach flipped. "Cas?"

"Cas." Sam's eyes turned upward. "Dean, he's the only one who can stop this."

Dean leaned forward, his heart racing. "Sam, what is it? Tell me what it is Cas can do to help."

Sam gasped and covered his face with his hands, shuddering in pain. "I can't--" he said, then his face twitched in a series of spasms. Dean saw the faces of Lucifer and Sam trade off within that one shell, fighting, he imagined, a battle to the death inside his brother's head.

"Sam," he shouted. "Tell me. What's Cas got that Lucifer's so afraid of?"

The flickering faces fell still. For a moment quicker than a shiver, Sam's face burned through clear and bright.

"God," he whispered. "Castiel's got God."

**to be concluded**


	12. World Without End, Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it was in the beginning, so it is and ever shall be.

Castiel had joined the fray. The hunters' army was waging war against a thousand plagues, every manner of beast and monster and natural phenomenon that had been drawn here by its master's presence, and he found himself singularly unable to leave the humans to fight on their own.

When had that tide turned in his mind? When had he learned to care, not just for Dean but for the mother and child, the old friends who fought side by side, the pining lover who longed to see his darling again once this was all over? It hadn't been a single, definable moment. He'd learned it, bit by bit and day by day, from Dean and Sam and all the rest who slaved and gave for people they'd never meet again. He wondered if becoming more human would take him further still from God. If so, it was worth it.

But even as he murmured spells that turned aside lightning and swung an iron rod at a swarm of tigerlike beasts with red eyes, his attention was still on the house behind him. He could feel the vibrations and thumps, hear the sounds of combat, in the recesses of his perception. And when the air burst with electricity and he could feel the brush of wings against his face, he looked up with some despair. "Michael," he uttered, and his heart sank.

He turned back toward the house, banishing a hundred terrors with one flash of power from his palm, and began to run toward the front gate. Something horrified was crawling in him. _What if_? it said. _What if that was the last chance you ever had to speak to Dean? What if you never see him again?  
_  
He came to the front steps just as light erupted from the upstairs windows. He faltered, losing his step and stumbling, catching himself against the rail. "Dean," he said. "Dean, no."

The whisper that had been tugging at his insides overwhelmed him now, loud and incoherent. He thought his eardrums might explode from the force of it. His hands went to his head, clutching at it, trying to keep himself steady in the midst of the endless thunder that sounded inside his skull. It was everywhere now, and he couldn't understand a word of it. In the thicket of sound and pain and confusion, he didn't see the figures descending the stairway just inside.

He looked up at the sharp rap of the screen door. Dean was leading Sam by the hand. They were both bloodied. Their faces were sober. A faint white glow was emanating from their bodies, centering on their intertwined fingers. Castiel focused on it. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open in the torrent of whispers. His heart was rocking back and forth furiously in his chest.

The light was too strong. Dean's face was too grave. Despair rolled through him. "Michael," he said, lowering his eyes, crushed.

"Guess again."

A hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up into a grinning face.

"Miss me, Huggy Bear?" Dean said.

Without so much as an itch or a prickle of warning, tears began to fall from Castiel's eyes.  Looking at Dean, seeing the familiar smile and the holy light, he knew so much. He knew joy, and he knew gratitude, and the trembling of revelation. He knew what it was to have faith confirmed and nobility of purpose vindicated. And he knew that he wept not just from gladness or from relief, but from love. These were tears of love.

_God is love._

The whispering words, clear for the first time, eclipsed all other sound. The amulet he'd kept around his neck for weeks burned white-hot with power. Light, clear and brilliant, poured out of him, and Castiel felt himself drifting, separated from himself and the world he'd been living in, ascending to a different plane. His Father was holding his hand.

**

_You're here. You're alive._

_You kept me alive. You woke me. Dearest son, I thank you._

_I doubted you. I was sure--_

_You put your faith in humankind. You understood why I loved them. Your love for them was what sustained me._

_Father, what of Lucifer?_

_He is my beloved son. He will be forgiven._

_Forgiven? After all that he's done?_

_Do you doubt me now, Castiel?_

_No, no, of course not--_

_You should. Always question me, dear son, and you will always have my respect. But Lucifer has served his sentence. His destiny was fulfilled. He entered the body of Sam Winchester and he felt remorse. Now he will be welcomed back into the arms of Heaven._

_And Michael?_

_Michael returns to my side. As will you, Castiel._

_Father... may I ask one thing?_

_Speak, my son._

_Sam and Dean. Let them see you. Let them see... let _us_ see our father..._

_Very well, Castiel. Very well._

 

**

They were in Kansas, on the farm. But the house that rose above them was the one they remembered from a long time ago. The skies were clear. There was no army, no plagues, no monsters or demons. Just Sam, and Dean, and Castiel, and the quiet light of dawn.

Dean dropped Sam's hand and blinked, then rubbed his eyes as though it all might change if he did. "What the..."

"Look," Sam said, taking a step forward. "Look at Cas."

The angel stood straight, expectant, his eyes on the horizon. "Our father is here," he said softly.

"Wait." All business and realism as ever, Dean frowned. He crossed in front of Castiel, shadowing his face, trying to pull his focus off the faraway and into the here and now. "What do you mean, he's here? By _our father_, you mean..."

Castiel just nodded toward the horizon. Dean followed his eyes.

The figure that strode toward them had an easy, loping, confident gait. A familiar one. As he approached, Dean's jaw dropped. Beside him, Sam started to tremble, and his hands flew to his mouth. Tears prickled in his eyes.

"Dad."

The weathered, worn, warm face of John Winchester looked them over. "Boys."

Dean flew forward first. Sam was just after, giving a shout. John spread his arms wide to receive his sons. Bodies and tears and words all jumbled together, and there was a moment of pure, crystalline joy on that field beneath the dreamland sky.

It was Sam who first turned back. "Wait," he said, eyeing Castiel. "You said _our_ father. Does that mean..."

Castiel nodded. John smiled and grazed a callused hand past Sam's cheek. "You're my child," he said.

"Wait." Dean stumbled backward. "Are you telling me I just bear-hugged the Man? As in, as in God?"

The chuckle, full of years' worth of fatherhood and fire, was all John's. "I'm both," he said. "I'm your father, and I'm something more."

"So Lucifer was right," Sam said, awed. "God really was inside you the whole time."

"I am inside all my creations, always," John said. "But Castiel kept me safe as the world turned darker. He learned to love humans, to believe in them as I do. That light sustained me, and it woke me to the moment of Revelation."

Sam nodded, but Dean had backed off further and was eyeing him warily. A storm was brewing on his face, and Sam sensed it first, then turned back to see it. His heart stuttered, and he began to speak, to attempt in vain to stop him. But by that time Dean had exploded. "Our dad was in hell," he said. "He gave his life, his soul for me. How do I know this isn't some demon trap?"

"Dean." Castiel, who had stood by quietly as the family reunited, now grabbed him by the arm, his tone and his expression warning.

Dean shook him off. "I'm serious. How can he be our dad? Our dad's in hell."

"Not any longer," John said. Dean snapped around to stare at him, his face challenging.

John's smile was serene, unruffled by Dean's outburst. "Have you forgotten the rest of the story of the Revelation? The dead rise up to life eternal, and there is forgiveness for the sinners."

"What?"

John scratched his head, a rueful smile on his face. "How should I put this so you'll understand it? Revelation is not a one-time thing. The Lord appears on earth, heralded by His angels and omens, and hell is flushed out. Like a clogged toilet." He laughed. "Not the prettiest metaphor, but it will have to do."

"So the world isn't supposed to end, after all." Sam punched his fist. His eyes were alight. "Just like Bobby thought."

"Bobby." The name plucked a string within Dean, and he vibrated, wound up and disturbed. His eyes were dark, and his fists were clenched again. "Bring him back. If you're God, you can do that much. We saved your precious world. Come on."

"Dean." John stepped forward, cradled Dean's face in his hands. The smile on his face was so warm and pitying, Dean was unable to do anything but tremble. "Bobby is in a better place now."

"That's what people say when they don't know the truth." Dean's voice was shaking. "You're not God. You're just some patronizing demon. Cas, why aren't you doing anything?" He tried to jerk his head around, but when his eyes caught Castiel's, the angel only regarded him sadly and then shook his head.

"He's so happy," John said softly. "So happy and so honored that you want to bring him back. But it was his time. He knew that before you two did, long before. He made his decisions, and he doesn't regret them."

John's implacability, his intense serenity in the face of the storm of emotions, was finally enough to break Dean down. "It was him," he said. His jaw was shaking, and he was just barely holding back tears. "It was him who stopped the world from ending. It's not fair."

A soft cluck of the tongue, and John let Dean go. "Dean," he said quietly. "Parents always sacrifice for their children."

Sam stepped forward and put a hand on Dean's shoulder. His eyes were wet, too. "It's all right, Dean," he said. "We're going to make sure everyone knows just what he did. No one will ever forget his name."

The vehemence, the purpose in his voice broke Dean down, and his own tears spilled down his cheeks, shamelessly. He fell into Sam's arms, exhausted, the cord of his nerves finally frayed beyond recognition. What he'd been through in the past hours. Days. Weeks. Years. It all caught up with him, and he cried, like a child, trusting in his dearest friend and brother to see him through. Sam's tears came, too, and they leaned on each other, crying together.

Castiel shared a glance with John. The white glow of belief and hope had returned, and it was emanating now from the embrace they were witnessing. Dean and Sam were shining bright as any beacon.

Dean found his feet and his voice faster. He stepped out of Sam's embrace, wiped his face on his sleeve, and peered through puffy eyes at John. "So what now?" he said. "Are you just going to disappear again? After showing up, shutting down Hell-- you'll just leave?"

"Oh, Hell's not shut down," John replied. "People will still sin. Hell will still forge new demons. I'm afraid you don't get to retire as early as you might have thought."

"But you're going to leave."

"I was never gone. I will always be in each and every one of you. But yes, we must depart from this plane."

"Wait. We?"

"Lucifer, and Castiel, and Michael and I. Heaven awaits our return."

Dean wheeled. The minute Castiel's name had been spoken, his universe had frozen down to a single point of cold truth. He stared at Cas as though he could burn him into place with the force of his gaze. Cas was leaving. He'd return to Heaven. Dean would never see him again.

He was still staring, eyes itching again but unyielding, when John spoke. "Go on then, Castiel," he said quietly. "Say your goodbyes."

Ever faithful, ever obedient, Castiel nodded. He crossed to Sam and nodded at him. Sam wrapped him up in a brief embrace. "Thank you," he whispered. "For everything." Castiel gave another firm nod, this one against his shoulder, and his eyes closed as the embrace lingered another moment, then faded out with a clap on the back and the meeting of two pairs of shimmering eyes. And Castiel turned to Dean.

Dean's bravado was his saving grace. He forced himself out of frozen shock, but his gaze lingered in the dirt beneath them. "I, uh... I guess I'll miss you most of all, Scarecrow," he said with a snicker.

Castiel tilted his head. "I'm sorry?"

The snicker widened to a full-on smile. "Jeez, Cas, you never change."

"You once told me not to."

Dean shook his head. "Guess I did, at that." He dared to look up at Castiel's face, and immediately had to bite his lip to keep the sob inside his chest from escaping. His nails dug into his palm as he tried to find breath to speak. "Th-thank you, Cas. Really. For... for so much."

Castiel reached forward and folded Dean into a hug. "You're welcome." The soft growl of his whisper melted into Dean's close-cropped hair.

"I'll never forget you." Dean's shoulders were shaking.

"And I'll always--"

"No, don't." Dean pulled back. His whole face was wet with a fresh round of tears, deepening the red tracks of the old ones. "You won't. But that's... that's OK." He hiccuped, and a sob tore through him. Castiel's hands clamped down on his shoulders, and Dean grabbed one wrist and hung on tight, trying to gain control of himself. "Jesus. I didn't think this would be this hard."

"No," Castiel said quietly, "nor did I." He leaned in, pushed his cheek against Dean's, and held there for a long moment, his eyes fluttering closed. Neither spoke. The dream world around them stood still.

And then, all at once, Cas ripped away from him and wheeled around to face John. "No," he said.

To John, who was God, who was his Father, whom he'd searched for, for whom he'd been exiled from heaven, he said, "No.

"No, I don't want to leave."

There was an instant of silence. Castiel looked as surprised as anyone to hear his own refusal.

Dean found his tongue first. "Wait, did you just say 'no'?"

Castiel turned to him. "Yes."

"Is that yes, no? Or no, yes? Or..."

"I want to stay with you," he said, and he grabbed Dean's hand.

"Wait a minute." Sam took an awkward step forward. "What is going on here?" His face was all screwed up in confusion. John just looked like he was holding back laughter.

Castiel's cheeks were flaming red. "I don't want to forget about you," he said to Dean earnestly. "You may think I haven't changed, but I have. A great deal. And it was you who changed me, Dean. I... I find I like the person I am now."

"But you're _not_ a person," Dean said. His face was still blotchy with the aftermath of tears, but his brow was furrowed.  "You're an angel. And you have harps and wings and pearly gates and things waiting for you. Why in the hell would you want to spend another moment on this planet with all these ugly things?"

"Because I love you," Castiel said.

Simply, plainly. Not a dramatic confession, not a rebellious yell or an intimate whisper. Just the truth, spoken in that plain, low, gravelly voice that was Castiel's.

Still, Dean's jaw dropped.

In the background, John snickered. Sam gave an exclamation that sounded more or less like "Whozawhunow?" Dean stood there, gaping, for another few seconds before his brows knotted together and he looked more or less like he had just sucked on a really, really sour lemon.

"You what?" he said before realizing that was a stupid thing to ask. Because Castiel repeated himself. Still sounding stone-cold sober and in complete command of his faculties. Dean smacked his palm to his forehead. "OK, I got that part. But how? What? Why?"

Castiel gazed at him reproachfully. "You said we'd talk about that later. We'd sit down and talk about it."

"Well, well, maybe we need to talk about it now!" Dean burst out. "Because this is pretty weird, to be confessing this in the middle of this time warp or whatever it is, in front of God-- worse, in front of _Sam_\-- and I don't really know what to say, because it's not like I haven't _thought_ about it, but, I mean, there's so much to figure out and..." Then Castiel's eyes flashed, and Dean knew to shut the hell up.

"Dean, I've been an angel for thousands of years," Castiel said. "I'm not accustomed to talking about my feelings. I don't know the etiquette. I definitely don't know the details. I just know that I love you, and I don't want to leave you."

He spread his palms out and gazed at them. "For centuries I wondered why I existed. Now I know. I've played my part in this drama, and now that it's over, I just want out. I want to help you rebuild this world that I nearly helped destroy. I want the chance to rest in peace." He looked up at Dean. "And until that day comes, I want to spend every moment I can with you."

Dean had an unsteady hand on his mouth. "With me?" he whispered. "Doing what? I mean... I don't-- I don't know how--" His words faltered.

"I thought," Castiel said timidly, clearing his throat, "I thought I could help you hunt. If that's all right with your brother." He turned his eyes to Sam, half wary and half pleading.

"Castiel."

John's voice. Rich, majestic, with the tone behind it that was just a bit too resonant, a bit too piercing. A reminder that he was John Winchester, but he was something more as well.

"Are you sure this is what you want? You'll be cut off from heaven. You'll age as a human will, and you'll die. You'll lose all of your powers. Your body will be that of a mortal man."

John went on. "You will retain your memories and your knowledge of heaven. I think you'll have it in you to be as powerful a magic worker as ever walked the earth, but that's all you will be, a worker of spells. If a werewolf sinks his teeth into you, or if a car hits you, you will die. I will not be protecting you from the ravages of space and time."

The angel bowed his head. "I know, Father."

"And this is still your wish."

A fervent whisper. "_Yes._"

John came forward and clasped him close, then kissed the top of his head. A milky glow enveloped Castiel. "You will always be my child," John whispered, and he stood back.

He beckoned to Dean and Sam then, and they shared one last, precious embrace that was over far too soon. John's arms widened, and around them the sky and land seemed to flicker. Behind them they could hear faraway shouts, and the farmhouse they'd grown up in began to fade, the new building slowly coming into view.

Sam and Dean looked up, watching reality change around them. Their gaze returned to their father, but he was already half-gone. A thousand million sparkles of light hovered where he had stood, and as he disappeared, they scattered, flying toward the horizon in every direction. And when they had all gone, the world had returned.

**

Castiel had stopped glowing. He was looking down at himself in some surprise. Nothing had changed about his appearance, but his posture relaxed, as though the cord of tension that had held him upright had been let loose. "I'm human," he said quietly. "I... I'm in this body. It's my body." His eyes were round. "I can feel. My feet hurt. I'm..."

He straightened up and looked at Dean. "Are you angry with me?" he asked. "I... If you are, I couldn't blame you." He gave a shaky laugh. "Embarrassment is much stronger now that I'm human."

Dean looked at him shyly. "Course I'm not angry," he muttered. "To tell you the truth, I'm... I'm kind of flattered." His cheeks were no longer red just from his earlier tears. He shuffled up to Castiel, and their eyes locked in a moment of silent communication. Finally, Dean shrugged. "Welcome to Earth, spaceman," he said with a quirky smile.

Castiel squinted, but he decided not to ask. "Thank you," he said. "It... It's nice to be here." He gazed up through thick lashes at Dean's face.

Sam burst into a peal of laughter. "OK, now I'm kind of rooting for you guys to make a love connection," he said. "That's just the funniest thing I have ever seen."

"Shut up." Dean shot a nasty look at him. Sam just answered with a smile.

The noise coming from behind them had resolved into shouts of victory. Dean turned. The army of hunters was coming toward the gates. Running, yelling, voices mixed in a tumble of joy and excitement. The clouds above them had scattered, and the sky was clear.

Dean reached over and took Castiel's hand. With his other hand, he took Sam's.

"We've got plenty to talk about," he said firmly. "But right now, we've got work to do."

Together, they stepped forward through the gate and into the street.

 

_As it was in the beginning, so it is and ever shall be,_

_World without end,_

_Amen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small epilogue follows...


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because eventually they had to have _that_ talk.

They returned to a ranch home with flowers piled up on the porch so high they actually had to clear them to get to the door.

News of Bobby Singer's death had traveled fast. It turned out that for every hunter who came along on the journey to Lawrence, there were ten who couldn't get away. And for every hunter who sent flowers from his or her corner of the universe, there were ten people who just knew Bobby as the gentle man who lived on the ranch and fixed cars and always had a gruff but kind word for everyone.

"Pillar of the community. Who'd have thought?" Dean commented as he made his way through the cards and bouquets. Sam looked at him as though he were about to say something, but then thought better of it and continued sorting through the gifts.

If it weren't for Sam, they never would have gotten through the week that followed. Sam was good at the little, normal things that needed doing. Announcing Bobby's death in the local papers, putting the word out, contacting his insurance and bank, making funeral arrangements... all the nitty-gritty that Dean had never bothered to learn. Somehow or another the days rolled around to the day of the funeral, and that's when Dean's eyes bugged out and he nodded dumbly as the church filled with hundreds of friends and neighbors and people Bobby had helped out over the years. Half of them figured Dean was his son. He let them think it. To all intents and purposes, he was.

It hurt like hell to put Bobby in the ground. Normally a hunter wanted his body burned-- too much mischief could be made with bones still intact-- but it was too hard to pull off with this many respectable types watching. So Castiel and Sam worked hard on placing warding charms on the body to prevent haunting or possession, and they laid Bobby to rest six feet under, like everyone else in the world. As the coffin was lowered, Dean fell forward to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Sam and Castiel flanked him the whole way home, making sure he had shoulders to lean on aplenty. But Dean took it hard. It was as though seeing just how much of a difference Bobby had made, how many people mourned him, drove home the fact that his friend and surrogate father wouldn't be calling him back, snapping at him in that sharp tone of his, calling him names or helping him calm down anymore. Dean had lost an anchor, and he didn't know how to keep from drifting without it.

Sam and Castiel were relegated to the day-to-day duties of managing Bobby's estate -- if estate it could indeed be called, with its roomfuls of books and random car parts -- while Dean took his time in recovering. Castiel would turn mournful eyes up to the bedroom where Dean had shut himself in, and Sam would watch Castiel carefully, weighing whether or not to make a suggestion.

"Why don't you go up and talk to him?" he said finally one evening.

Castiel's eyes lowered to Sam's and immediately flitted away again, as though the gaze were too intense for him to match. "I don't know," he said. "I don't think I can. I don't know what to say."

"Just tell him you care about him and want to help," Sam said.

"In that case, why don't you go?" Castiel said rigidly. The discomfort he was feeling was all new to him, and he didn't know how to handle it.

"Because you're the one who wants to. I know Dean. He'll be fine, eventually. It's you I'm worried about."

"Me?" Castiel dropped the dishcloth he'd been holding. He found drying dishes remarkably soothing, now that he was privy to the jangles of human nerves. "Why?"

Sam smiled. "You and he still haven't had that talk."

"Oh. _Oh._" Castiel turned red, and Sam stifled a snicker. "No. I thought it would be better to wait. Until he's ready..."

He jumped back. He suddenly had Sam in his face. The younger Winchester brother had leaned over the counter and was staring at him at very close range.

"He'll never be ready until you force him into it," he said. "Don't you know that about him by now?"

**

The knock on Dean's door made him jump, not because it was loud but just because he hadn't had knocks on his door outside of mealtimes for the past few days. Yeah, he was being a ridiculous shut-in, but it was hard to face life these days. He didn't have an army to keep steady for anymore, and he didn't have a world to save. He only had himself, and memories, and loneliness for company, and that was a very poor cast of characters for any kind of play. So he didn't see the need to move.

"Yeah, come on in," he said, surprised at how rough his voice sounded. He hadn't used it in several hours.

Castiel's scruffy head of hair poked in, followed by his searching black eyes. He was sliding in on a diagonal slant, as though sticking his whole head in the door would be too bold a move for him. This from the same guy who used to make Dean cut himself shaving because he'd suddenly show up two inches away. It was downright ridiculous.

"How are you?" Castiel asked timidly.

Dean mustered up a huge grin. "I'm OK. Come have a seat." He slid over on the bed to make room.

Castiel looked around the room nervously. "It's dark in here," he said, making his slow way over.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I sort of forget to turn the lights on." Dean looked up at the nervous face and felt a pang of guilt. "Man, I'm sorry. I have been all tied up in myself and haven't been thinking of you guys at all."

"You've had a lot to deal with," Castiel said. "Lucifer, the army, all of this--"

But Dean was in full self-recrimination mode at this point. "No, no excuse," he said. "God damn it. I completely forgot what a tough time you were having of it. I've been selfish. I'm sorry. Are you going to sit down?"

Castiel looked at him dubiously and then settled, stiffly, onto the edge of the bed.

Dean scooted forward next to him. "So how's life as a human treating you?" he said. "Used to it yet?"

"It's very intense," Castiel said, looking at his thumbs. "I'm experiencing things differently."

Leaning forward with interest, Dean narrowed his eyes to peer at his friend. "How so?"

"Well..." Castiel glimpsed at him and considered, for just a moment, explaining how Dean looked to him now that these human's eyes were his. But he couldn't possibly say that. "Food, for instance," he said. "It's very... full of taste."

This, and the ensuing distortion of Castiel's face by equal memories of sweet and sour varieties, brought a short laugh to Dean's lips. "I'll bet you're weaker to alcohol now, too," he said, nudging Castiel in the ribs. "I'll have to get you drunk sometime to see if you like it."

Castiel's face edged into a smile. "I'd be willing to try that," he said. For a moment, their mirroring smiles brought a flicker of warmth to the room that hadn't been there before, and it felt like taking a deep breath, felt renewing. Castiel's heart swelled.

"I worry about you," he confessed.

"I know." Dean looked away quickly. Regret pinched his features, and the light in them faded away. "I'm sorry." He paused, then settled comfortably against the headboard of the bed and began to speak in a low voice. "I went through this once, already, when Dad died," he said. "I thought that if I just shut myself away, if I just didn't let myself feel and just went to sleep, I'd wake up the next morning and it'd all be over, all the pain would be gone. Doesn't work that way. But I keep thinking, what's easier? To stay up here and hurt, or to go down there, and try to talk to people, and just..." A tear sparkled in one eye, and he pressed his lips together, trying hard to suppress the sob behind his words. "...just everything down there reminding me that I'm still here, he's gone, and somehow I've got to keep on going--"

He broke off and passed a hand over his wet eyes, unable to look at Castiel or to continue speaking.

Castiel's fingers ached. No, his whole chest ached now, with pain he'd never felt before -- pain that came completely from watching another person suffer. This was sympathy, pure and selfless, his first experience of the emotion. Angels were incapable of it. He didn't know what to do with it.

"Dean," he finally said, feeling like a great fool, "could I hold you?"

Dean's eyes widened, and a few errant tears spilled. He forced a smile to his lips. "Jeez," he said, "we still haven't talked about--" Screwing up his face, he shook out the tension and tried again. "If you mean can you give me a hug, sure," he said, trying to sound casual.

Castiel reached forward and slid his arms around Dean's shoulders, pulling him forward into an embrace. His heart began to thud as soon as they made contact, and he was very nearly distracted by it, it was so loud and so jarring in his ears and chest. But Dean was warm, and slowly relaxing into his arms, and Castiel kept himself focused on giving all the love and warmth he had in his soul to Dean, who so desperately needed it. As long as he could stay focused on that, he could ignore how wildly his pulse was beating and how he itched to deepen the embrace, to touch the gaunt smoothness of Dean's face, to tip up his chin to kiss the slack mouth that now pressed unknowingly into his shoulder--

"We don't have to talk," he said quietly. "About us. Not until you're ready."

Dean nodded. "Thanks for understanding," he said. But it wasn't any sympathy or concern that had driven Castiel to say that. It was simply that he didn't need Dean's help to figure it out any longer. He knew what he was feeling.

**

The time came, of course, that Dean was ready. It was after he managed to rejoin the real world, a short time after Sam had started organizing all of Bobby's old files to try and reconstruct the ad hoc hunter dispatching service he'd run out of his home. "Actually," he said to Dean and Castiel, "I think I might like to do half and half. You know, go out on the job sometimes, but there's so much good stuff in here--" He gestured at the endless shelves of books and papers "--and I think I could really be a help. Not just to you guys, but to all the other hunters out there."

"You want to be Oracle," Dean said. "I guess I can dig that."

"What?" said Castiel and Sam at the same time.

"Oh, read a comic book once in a while." Dean rolled his eyes. Sam shrugged at Castiel, who gave a halfhearted, clueless smile back. Dean grumbled at the both of them and headed to the kitchen to grab a beer.

With a glass of water in tow, Castiel joined him out back, standing on the step just behind where Dean had taken a seat and was staring out at the yard. "I think it's a good idea," he said. "With this much information at our fingertips, it would be a waste not to use it to our advantage."

"I think he's just trying to make us go on the road together," Dean said. He took a swig and belched, then pounded on his chest with a round fist. "He thinks he's doing me some good."

"I would like to spend some time here as well," Castiel said. "I could benefit from learning some of the lore that isn't based in Heaven."

"Not if Sammy has anything to say about it." Dean let out a hiss of breath. "Don't you get it? He's trying to make us have that talk. He's convinced we're destined to go all Brokeback on his ass. No, never mind," he added without even turning to see Castiel's befuddled expression. "You don't wanna know. Anyway, I suppose he's got a point. I'm just putting off having to talk about it."

"We don't have to talk about it until you're ready," Castiel reminded him. "I'm quite happy with things as they are."

"Are you?" Dean tilted his head up toward Castiel's expression and found only contentment there. Disbelieving it, he heaved a heavy sigh. "Yeah, I know how these things go. You say everything's OK, but it's not. You gotta face reality. We might as well just get it over with. Go on, Cas, let me have it."

He was holding the beer bottle tight enough to pulverize the thing. It was shaking, and small beads of condensation were falling from its brim, wetting Dean's clutching hands. Castiel watched for a moment and then came to sit down beside him.

"How I feel about you hasn't changed," he said quietly. "I told you that I loved you and that's still the truth."

"Yeah, but like how?" Dean said. His eyes kept flying up and down, like looking at Castiel for too long might burn him. "You know, things were pretty intense back there, we were both scared, and now that things have calmed down, well, I don't know. I just-- Jesus." He laughed shakily. "You'd think I would have had time to prepare myself for this."

"For what?" Castiel's tone was level, but there was a soft touch to it that he hadn't had before he became human. "For me telling you how I feel? Dean, nothing has to change. I just told you. I'm happy as things are. Just to be here with you, to be starting a brand-new life... that's all I wanted. It wasn't just you I fell in love with. It was this place, this life, all of the people we met. As long as I'm able to spend the rest of my days with you and with them, I don't need anything else."

Dean had turned red. "OK, you just blasted things up another notch, you know that, right?" he mumbled. Castiel stared at him, frowning. Dean's head shrank down into his shoulders, like he was trying to go inside a turtle shell he didn't have the luxury of owning. "You just said--" His next words were completely incomprehensible.

"Huh?" Castiel's eyebrows hitched quizzically.

"....youjusedjuwernluvithme," Dean mumbled.

"Dean, I can't read your mind anymore. Would you mind speaking out loud?"

Dean was the color of an overripe strawberry at this point. "You just said you were-- were-- _in love_\--" he said in between a series of wheezy breaths. "That's kind of different than just-- you know!" He angled his whole body away from Castiel, hiding his face.

Castiel twisted his lips in thought. "I see," he said. "I hadn't realized... Look. Dean." In the underbrush at the edge of the property, a bluejay warbled its rude interruption of the scene. Castiel took a deep breath. "The fact is, I don't think there's any way I _don't _love you. As a friend, as family, as someone I want to be with-- I just... I feel it all. You changed my whole life. So, yes, I'm in love with you. But that's not all there is to it."

He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, just minimal pressure. To his surprise, Dean didn't flinch, didn't pull away. That gave him strength, and he went on. "All I need is to be with you. I don't need to hold your hand or do any of those other things that you're afraid I'm going to do. Just having a drink with you out here once in a while... that's enough for me. Really."

Dean's shoulders did move this time, an inch of twisting spine bringing Dean's profile into view again. He was biting his lip. Castiel sat back and watched him war within his own head for control over his next words.  He had no idea what they'd be, and nervousness shook his fingers as he pulled back, watched, waited, and went over a million possible things that Dean might say next.

None of them were what he actually said.

Dean looked at him, his face plaintive all of a sudden, and burst out with, "What if it's not enough for me?"

Silence then. Castiel caught his breath. The bluejay went through another aria and hopped away into the next yard.

Even after a minute, "Dean" was the only word Castiel could manage.

"I know, I'm going nuts, right?" A sad smile. "But, you know, you mean something to me, Cas. And I look at you sometimes and I think, well, what if? So I don't know. I don't know if I'm just depending on you and I shouldn't read too much into it, or if this is something real, or what it is." He made a pair of fists and clenched them tight in his lap. "But the point is... I think I'm willing to try."

Castiel's expression was blank. His  mind was blank. This did not compute. It just didn't process. "What... what are you telling me, Dean?" he said.

Dean gazed at him, the crinkles around his eyes echoing the warmth in his smile. "Guess _telling _you isn't gonna really do the trick," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

He slipped his arm around Castiel's shoulder and leaned toward him. Castiel panicked. Which way should he tilt his head? What if Sam was watching them? What if this was some sort of prank and Dean was going to laugh his head off at him later? What did he do now? All the questions came up at once, in that annoying human way they did, and he wanted to take a fly swatter to his brain and force it back into focus. Dean was about to kiss him. Dean was going to kiss him. Dean. Kiss. Him. Oh. This was the most amazing moment he'd ever experienced. If only he could calm down and enjoy it.

Dean paused a half-moment from his lips. "You know what?" he murmured. "I still can't believe I'm doing this, but so far it feels okay."

"Okay--" Castiel began to echo, but with the _oh_ his lips were pursed and Dean's were on them.

His eyes closed. The world shifted into a slow-moving dreamtime. There was nothing but Dean's kiss and the low, drowsy pleasure suffusing his limbs, spreading throughout his whole body. A sweet, brief moment that lasted forever.

When it ended, Dean was the one who uttered, "_Oh._"

They stared at each other. The quiet landscape rumbled with the sound of a slow-moving car driving by somewhere in the distance.

"Still feel okay?" Castiel asked gingerly. The smile he got in return answered him just fine.

Dean leaned his head against Castiel's. "Yeah, okay," he said. His arm remained tight around Castiel's shoulders. Afternoon rolled into twilight in South Dakota. The world, one without end, still had plenty of beginnings in store.

**the end**


End file.
